















^ o 

'V .S> Y,'' r5' ■> ^ '•>■ ■ •>!> 

0^ -P .v'® 




0 


t/> ^v 


" s 

Va "V »> 

,0*^ 

? , 0 N c ^ ':ii _ ' • • ' ^ , ' ' » * 


V ■> ^ ' 

-tU^ ' 0 « V 


4 ■ 




■^0^ :% 


'v: 


s'” ',,'V' ■’ ■* 

■A ^ 


' ■■ ^0' 


V*. 




'^/> ' 0 » X S,’ v; , ^ 

* , ^O. .0- c 

'> LT ■» -1^ 

< 


V » 8 


.\ 




o' r .' 

^ > vV ^ ' ^.//i:» 

V 

' ~r- \Y’ ^ 

: ^ • 

" C.^ ' 

0 

o 0^ 


*“' o N 0 


'^ r 

^ .0 

^ J. 

x'' ., 

: -v'^ 

=,WW/ /% 


•B r B- 

•v A ^ 

r 



"''jS' » ^ ' ' ' " ’ " * 0 ~ '- 

AV S. ^ -0 

-i- ae^r??y^ % ^ 

° 

. , ^ oN 

° *■ 0 ^ o ’ ax'- . 

\> <}- ^ ^ « /■ 

A>. ^ (X^'' 



\ -r r '^- 


*:^- 

1 * 'T 

VM ^ 

\ . 





if- 

O 

l' ^ ^ 



^ oV 

' 0 B X ■" ,0^ 


V 





% 


^ ^^mlm 

“7 ^<f/n\ .'£ 

S 

^Pl|^ ■:> 


'^ri. 




'J- 

t'^ 4v 



■ t> ^ J. 

O ^ 0 ,K ^,0^ 

-. ^ AV 

^ ^ .>> c 

> - 'o o' . „ 

'=^. ^ 8 1 




^ ^ ‘ '’a ^ O^ s'* ^ 

x- • ^ jA ^.6 /a o ^ . C > 

- > 2l 'Z ^'/'/ 



=‘<'| 



^'0 *» 

^ ^Xp 0 ^ ^ 



'/ / 


S .' \ '^, ^ 0 « X ^0 

> cl“« ,0' % 

.... ... . ^ 1 

i> 

✓ 

« 


<& - X ' '"y 

o ^».X- ^ < -...ss A % » 



'>^ V -> 

« ’=^-, » 8 , V S 

V ^ 

V* 

f: A % 









' V 


I. 






1 









THE ROMANCE OF A FRENCH 
PARSONAGE 


WORKS 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 



PUBLISHED IN THE 


INTERNATIONAL AND WESTMINSTER SERIES. 

NO. 

II 5 - 

SERIES. 

Int. 

For One and the World, . 

CIS. 

50 

147. 


Forestalled, 

50 

86. 

it 

Parting of the Ways, The, 

50 

II. 

West. 

Romance of the Wire, A, 

2'> 



THE ROMANCE OF A FRENCH 

PARSONAGE 



M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

\\ 

AUTHOR OF 

‘‘THE PARTING OF THE WAYS/^ “FOR ONE AND THE WORLD,” KTC. 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 





Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 


Al^ rights reserved. 


THE KOMANCE OF 


A FEENCH PAESONAGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE CONSECRATION. 

Op the mighty stream of Parisian holiday-makers 
one Sunday evening, only a tiny rill flowed in the 
direction of the Kue des Billettes. Few tourists 
ever find their way to the Lutheran church in this 
ancient street, few indeed were likely to be tempted 
thither on such a night. The allurements held out 
to pleasure-seekers were almost maddening. It was 
the close of a dazzling show, that unimaginable, in- 
describable jubilee of liberty, all the nations had 
flocked to see. 

The Eiffel Tower, in itself a revolution, fittest em- 
blem of revolution gone by, with its twinkling lights, 
near neighbours of the stars, its fairy gardens and 
rainbow- coloured fountains, its aerial voyages and 
banquets midway between earth and heaven, formed 
one of a thousand magnets attracting the stranger. 

Who could turn aside in quest of the quiet, incon- 


6 


THE ROMANCE OF 


spicuous Rue des Billettes, when Moli^re could be 
heard at the Fran9ais, Racine at the Odeon ? To 
understand, or rather feel, the French language, we 
must hear the master-pieces of these great brethren 
again and again. At a first hearing we are carried 
away by the passion of the piece ; at a second, taken 
captive by the noble sentiment pervading every 
line ; at a third, our ear becomes alive to the melody 
of the verse. 

What is there in Paris, what indeed is there not, 
during these intoxicating Eiffel days ? The quintes- 
sence of intellectual enjoyment for the sober, the 
acme of pantomime for grown-up children, for Epi- 
cureans the Eden Theatre, five hundred beautiful 
dancers with one smile, one pose, one airy come-and 
go! 

Would we amuse ourselves by finding out what 
amuses the work-a-day world, let us turn into the 
Montagues Russes or Musee Grevin, to be sledged 
along artificial avalanches, or, like the prince of 
Arabian story, wander amid a petrified population. 

So perfect the illusion that we end by asking our- 
selves who is living flesh and blood, who mere make- 
believe in this uncanny assemblage. 

But the show of shows is Paris itself, no longer 
the metropolis of a nation, the capital of France, but 
of the universe. On every side is heard a jargon of 
outlandish speech, the sight of a French face in 
these motley crowds almost comes as a surprise to 
us. The curious and the ethnologist need no longer 
traverse or circumnavigate the globe in order to see 
what the remotest races of man are like. All are 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 7 

here, to be admired, wondered at, studied at leisure, 
their appearance new and strange to ourselves as 
this brilliant Paris in their own eyes. In this com- 
ing together of savage and polished humanity lies 
the real marvel of the centennial exhibition. And 
it is emblematic. Just as the Eiffel Tower looks 
down upon the entire population of the globe, each 
type being here represented, so did the Revolution 
it commemorates embrace in its grandest pro- 
gramme, black race and white, civilised and wild, 
free man and slave ! 

Far away from these crowded scenes lies the Rue 
des Billettes where to-night will take place the 
strangest of all, an epoch-making event in the history 
of a strange life and in the annals of contemporary 
thought. 

This Lutheran church of old Paris seems peculiarly 
suited to the coming ceremony. The street to 
which it gave its name was called after a brotherhood 
of Augustan friars. Where now descendants of the 
ancient Huguenot stock sing Protestant hymns, 
listen to the Scriptures in their own tongue, formerly 
monks counted their beads, knelt to the confessor 
and worshipped the image of their founder. And 
where once many a pious Catholic had prayed for, 
perhaps anathematised the heretic, would shortly 
be heard the solemn abjuration of the Romish 
Church by a former servant, his no less solemn 
adhesion to the ritual of Reform. 

A priest, who was not only a brilliant orator, a 
skilled dialectician, but also a consummate man of 
the world, one of the brightest ornaments of the 


8 


THE ROMANCE OF 


sacerdotal ranks and of Parisian society, had seceded 
to Protestantism, and to-night awaited consecration 
as a pastor. 

Nothing in the way of pomp or parade attends such 
ceremonials of the Reformed Church. The doors of 
the sacred building were thrown open earlier than 
usual. It was somewhat more liberally lighted — that 
was all. 

The interior itself with its bare, white- washed 
walls, unadorned windows and plain wooden gallery, 
would have had a chilling effect but for the large 
crucifix, glittering as if of pure gold behind the altar. 
That symbol, hardly less pathetic to the non-believer 
than the ardent devotee, softened, beautified, irradi- 
ated the place, and relieved its drear monotony. 

The cross recalled the teaching of the sublime 
Nazarene in all its primitive simplicity, teaching, 
alas ! from which in these days the church of Luther 
has perhaps* strayed as far a*s the church of Rome. 

Long before eight o’clock, the hour fixed for the 
service, the sedate-looking congregation dropped in, 
one or two at a time. A soberer, less inquisitive 
assemblage it were hard to find. This little com- 
munity seemed like one numerous family. Friends 
chatted together in whispers till the organ should be 
heard, and was it from delicacy of feeling, well reined- 
in curiosity, or sheer want of zeal that made the 
inquiry so lukewarm,— 

“Is the Abbe really to be consecrated to-night?” 

Few failed to put the question, but the answer 
in the affirmative elicited scant signs of interest 
or animation. There is a physiognomy in these 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


9 


Huguenot gatherings, and it was easy to see that the 
Abbe’s former friends and colleagues were wholly, 
or for the most part, absent. 

Was it that they shrank from witnessing his 
humiliation, or his triumph, in whichever light they 
regarded this ceremony? Was it that from the 
apostate now, as of old, alike famihars and kindred 
had fallen away ? 

One visitant there came who did not seem at home 
in that simple place of worship, amid these plainly- 
dressed, almost homely church-goers. Long before 
the service began, a lady entered, bringing with her 
the atmosphere of the splendid, seductive world, on 
which the Abbe had turned his back for ever. The 
newcomer, perhaps, now visited a Protestant church 
for the first time. After some hesitation, she chose 
a side-seat under the gallery, whence she could see 
everything without being observed. 

Then she studied the little tablets on the wall, 
announcing the hymns to be sung that evening, and 
taking up the book lying near, conned the verses. 
Next she surveyed the congregation as if there, too, 
she found novel matter for speculation. Lastly, she 
drew down her veil, and eagerly watched the ves- 
try door. This figure, so elegant yet unpretentious, 
so distinguished yet unaffected, clearly belonged to a 
phase of the ex -priest’s life he was about to renounce 
for once and for all. 

With beautiful women of the world, their ambi- 
tions, their foibles, the village pastor would hence- 
f )rth have naught to do. 

Two bands of school-children were now marshalled 


10 


THE BOMANGE OF 


to their places, the girls filing off in one direction, 
the hoys in another. 

Instructive it was to compare their demeanour 
with that of little scholars under conventual rule, 
so early does liberty of conscience, the right to pro- 
test, assert itself. These sturdy j^oung Huguenots 
showed no automatic demureness, much less slavish 
submission to their teachers. The individual was 
apparent in every one. 

At last the organist climbed the organ loft, and a 
soft, plaintive voluntary was heard ; then indeed the 
congregation testified curiosity, and when the vestry 
doors were fiung wide and the little procession 
marched in, elders of the church, officiating minister, 
and candidates for ordination, one unanimous thrill 
electrified all, on every face were plainly written the 
words, — 

“ He is there.” 

The sohtary spectator hiding herself under the 
gallery gazed for a moment on that tonsured figure 
by the altar as if unable to beheve the evidence of 
her senses. But for the music, bystanders must 
have heard the passionate ejaculation, the suppressed 
sob, that came after ; but for the semi-obscurity in 
which she sat, they must have witnessed the tears 
streaming down her pale cheeks. 

Two pastors were to be consecrated to-night, in 
appearance as in circumstances strikingly con- 
trasted. 

The younger was one of those zealous evangelists 
who, without having passed the usual theological 
curriculum, are occasionally received into the ranks 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


11 


of the Reformed pastorate. In their case, the 
laying-on of hands comes as a reward for diligent 
service; whilst the black gown with its wide 
sleeves is the realisation of their highest earthly 
ambition. 

The worthy man now standing so proudly beside 
the ex -priest came evidently of unscholastic stock 
and humble origin. Small wonder that he stood 
exultant or that a touch of pardonable self-compla- 
cency marked every gesture. He seemed to think 
that all eyes were upon him and to thank the rapt 
gazers for their sympathy and appreciation. Very 
different the attitude of his fellow-candidate. 

It was indeed a noble figure, that of the convert 
from absolutism in faith to the right of inquiry ; but 
although pensive, without pathos, evoking rather 
respect than pity. The recalcitrant who now before 
Heaven and in the eyes of the world abjured the 
calling in which he had so signally distinguished 
himself and renounced the dignities therein, so surely 
awaiting him, the bishop -designate, even cardinal 
of the future, thus by universal consent of the Cath- 
olic world he had been acclaimed, was no fitting 
object of compassion. 

As he stood beside his jaunty brother, there was 
not even spiritual upbuoyance in his face, only the 
calm, unfiinching resolve of one who has finally 
bowed before reason and conscience. He appeared 
utterly oblivious of the crowd. Whether, indeed, 
glances of scorn or commendation were directed 
towards him, evidently mattered not. With the 
applause or disfavour of the world, he had done. 


12 


THE BOMANGE OF 


Meantime, the simple service proceeded. An ap- 
propriate hymn was sung, all present joining, prayers 
and the reading of scripture followed: next came 
the sermon or rather exhortation of the silver-haired 
elder to his younger brethren, the two neophytes 
that evening to be consecrated as shepherds of the 
Heavenly fold. 

There was irony in the situation. 

The homely, unlettered evangelist might well lis- 
ten eagerly to every word falling from the preacher’s 
lips, not a phrase, not a sentiment of the somewhat 
trite exordium but were priceless. So much hal- 
lowed wisdom to be hoarded, meditated upon, lived 
up to in the future. To his over- confident mind, 
appeal wore the aspect of prophecy, whilst every 
admonition, every implied burden only served to 
enlarge his own personality and magnify his future 
sphere. 

The other hearkened with a rigid face. How 
could these naive utterances and time-worn argu- 
ments affect him at all, unless with a sense of incon- 
gruity? Could he help comparing the past with 
the present, conjuring up visions of yesterday ? He 
who now listened outwardly meek as a child being 
instructed in its catechism, was the fiery orator, the 
impassioned teacher, all Paris had once fiocked to 
hear ? The sermon ended, the candidates ga ve their 
solemn adhesion to the Reformed Church, then 
knelt down between their spiritual sponsors to 
receive the imposition of hands. This solemn act 
accomplished, there remained the closing and most 
interesting feature of the ceremonial. It is the 


A TRENCH R ARSON AGE. 


13 


custom upon such occasions for the newly-ordained 
pastor to stand up and give the reason of the faith 
that is in him. 

Would the ex-priest follow the usual routine? 

None aware of the circumstances could feel whol- 
ly indifferent on this point. Such an apology must 
he not only touching in the extreme, hut also highly 
edifying. Some little impatience therefore was tes- 
tified at the length of the evangelist’s apology. 

Time is a word wholly without meaning to the 
self satisfied, and having once got upon the delight- 
ful theme of his own conversion, the good man did 
not know when to stop. The elders whispered to 
each other and glanced at their watches, the congre- 
gation yawned, tittered, and one or two, their for- 
bearance at an end, stole out on tiptoe. Still the 
enraptured speaker went on and was only pulled up 
hy a most fortuitous circumstance. 

Excessive emotion proved too much for his physi- 
cal powers. He hurst into unctuous tears, where- 
upon one of his superiors gently touched his arm 
and motioned him to withdraw. Then way was 
made for the apologist all present were longing to hear. 

No professional type is more strongly marked 
than that of the Romish priest. The convert might 
exchange richly-hordered stole, gorgeous cope and 
alh of finest lawn bordered with lace, for black gown 
and lappets, he might suffer his heard to grow, and 
in the public ways don civil garb, the priestly phy- 
siognomy would remain, defying effacement. 

As he now stood erect, fronting the congregation, 
the prevailing sentiment was of respectful pity. How 


14 


THE ROMANCE OF 


mighty must have been the mental struggle, how 
irresistible the inner voice that had brought such a 
man to such a pass ! Life’s meridian dazzlingly 
reached, the prizes most tempting to human beings 
within grasp, the brimming cup of fulfilment held to 
his lips, then dashed aside, and by no other hand 
but his own. It was evident that the suffering in- 
delibly written on every feature had passed away. 
Almost marble-like in its impassibility was the 
figure now conspicuous within the altar rails, the 
sculptured Christ behind him hardly more so. And 
when he began to speak, his narrative was strangely 
reserved and cold, not a touch of personal feeling, 
not a* single allusion to himself as a man, a member 
of the great social family, fell on those expectant 
ears. From beginning to end it was the theologian, 
the close reasoner, the merciless logician, who held 
forth. Not for a single moment were his listeners 
reminded of the powerful oratory all had heard of . 
and which was now enlisted on their own side. The 
apology, a brief but masterly summing up of the 
points at issue between the Romish faith and Protes- 
tantism, needed no fiash of eloquence, no inspired 
appeal, no moving peroration, to render it impres- 
sive. 

Only once, and for a moment, did the speaker show 
any signs ef faltering. His rich, sonorous, exquisitely- 
modulated voice trembled as he alluded to the abuses 
of the confessional. 

“ I doubt,” he said, speaking very slowly and with 
apparent effort, “ whether human ingenuity could 
have devised a system more incompatible with mortal 
weakness and social moralty than this, or more 


A FMENCE PABSOl^AGE. 


15 


directly opposed to the teachings of Christ. * Be ye 
pure,’ said the Divine Founder of the Christian reli- 
gion. And we deliberately set to work in His name 
to destroy all purity, to bring ardent young souls 
together in the spring-tide of life, who are doomed 
to remain before the eyes of men for ever apart. 
The newly-consecrated priest in the confessional, 
the maiden destined for closest relationship with 
another, kneeling outside, what have we here but a 
contradiction alike shocking to common-sense and 
natural feeling ? Nor can any sophistries reason 
away the dire consequences of such an anomaly. 
What, for instance, do we find in our own beloved 
France ? A house divided against itself, the sexes 
forming two camps, those who should be the stay 
and stimulative, one of another, wedded to directly 
opposed systems, aspirations and belief ! What else 
do we find ? Too often on the one side of the con- 
fessional, perjured vows, spiritual shipwreck, cal- 
lousness or despair; on the other, wasted affection, 
a perpetual warfare with impossibilities, unholy 
cravings, many a broken heart ! ” 

He paused, the silence being only disturbed by the 
sound of a woman’s sobs. The lady, who had hid- 
den herself under the gallery, for a moment was 
unable to control her tears. None could see her face 
for the shadows and the closely-drawn veil, nor did 
the speaker so much as glance that way. He seemed, 
however, suddenly put bn his guard. In clear, me- 
tallic tones, without a trace of feeling, he now womid 
up his discourse. A hymn and short prayer followed. 
The benedicti(^ was accorded and the congregation 
poured into the quiet streets. 


16 


TBM UOMANC^l OF 


CHAPTER II. 

OUTCAST AND OUTCAST. 

The keenest pang felt by the ex-priest is his utter 
solitude. No matter his rank in life, whether he he 
peasant-born or sprung from the lettered, luxurious 
classes, no sooner does he cast aside the cassock than 
he finds himself alone. Not the great Spinoza, after 
that horrible rite* of excommunication in the syna- 
gogue of Amsterdam, the execrations, the curses, 
the burning of black tapers over a vessel filled with 
blood, the awful Anathema Maranatha pronoimced 
in total darkness, was more abandoned to himself 
than is the imfrocked priest of nineteenth-century 
France. Not only is life to be begun afresh, but the 
natural and social ties, without which life were intol- 
erable, have to be re-created. The sturdiest charac- 
ter, the most resolute mind, may well shrink from 
such a sacrifice. 

Pastor Evelard, on the day after his consecration, 
remembered that he had one friend left in Paris, an 
old acquaintance to whom he could freely speak 
alike of the past and the present. Sympathisers 
and kindliest helpers had naturally come forward 
from the Huguenot body, both ministers and their 
fiocks welcoming the noble recusant with open arms. 
These were as yet strangers to him — at one with 


A FBENCB PABSOBAGE. 


17 


him in the matter of a common faith only. Self- 
contained, stout-hearted as he was, he yet craved the 
sight of a familiar face, the sound of a well-known 
voice. 

Taking the railway at the St. Lazare station, he 
soon reached one of the semi- suburban streets over- 
looking the fortifications raised by Thiers — those 
innocent-looking mounds covered with turf, once 
regarded as formidable, now rendered supereroga- 
tory by the fine of forts erected since the siege. An 
unfashionable quarter is this, but airy, spacious, 
cheerful. If the eye no longer glances over corn- 
fields and meadows, the horizons are still wide, and 
on the new boulevards the lounger may breathe 
freely as in the neighbouring Bois de Boulogne. 
Climbing in partial darkness to the sixth storey of 
a barely-finished block, and assuring himself from 
the visiting-card nailed to the door that he had 
reached his destination, the pastor pulled the bell. 

“ Open the door, Suzanne, my girl,” he heard a 
voice that he knew cry from within. 

“ Open it yourself,” a woman replied peevishly. 
“ Don’t you see that I have got baby in her 
bath?” 

“ Just see who it is, dear little mamma,” the first 
voice said, in a half-coaxing, half irritated tone. 

“ Was ever a man so unreasonable ? As if I could 
be perpetually getting out of my chair with a rheu- 
matic leg ! ” another woman answered in fretful 
accents. 

The intruder, for so he began to feel himself, was 
about to make good his escape when the door was 
2 


18 


TBE ROMANCE OF 




impatiently flung wide. A well-favoured, young- 
ish-looking man in dressing-gown and slippers, his 
clothes fragrant with tobacco, his ink-stained fingers 
holding a pen, stared at the visitor incredulously, 
than held out his disengaged hand. 

“My dear friend, I am enchanted to see you ! ” he 
cried heartily. “ Come inside to be introduced to 
my wife, mother-in-law, and baby, all the blissful 
components of family life.” 

Two men could hardly have been found less like ; 
the one blonde, bearded, rosy as a farmer, cheery, 
confidential, the other raven-haired, olive- complex- 
ioned, still close- shaven, reserved. 

In a single particular there was resemblance. 
Both heads showed traces of the tonsure, both had 
renounced the Romish Church and priestly calling. 

“ Ah, I had forgotten that you were married ! ” 

“You will not forget it when you are married 
yourself,” was the reply; “but here is madame, 
madame’s mamma, and mademoiselle, my daughter.” 

He ushered his visitor into one of those tiny fiats 
of modern Paris that make us wonder to what 
dimensions human dwellings will dwindle in the far 
future. 

The lodging belonged to the genteeler order. The 
ceilings of the one sitting-room and bed-chamber 
were decorated with mouldings, rosettes, and cor- 
nices, the wall-papers, of crimson embossed velvet, 
showed gilt dados ; the kitchen was fitted up with 
the latest invention in the way of cooking-stove, an 
apparatus of quite ornamental exterior. But all 
were on so diminutive a scale that the whole looked 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 19 

more like a doll’s house than the habitation of full- 
grown men and women. 

Clearly its tenants, like the bride and bridegroom 
of Tieck’s story, were under the necessity of redu- 
cing life’s necessaries to zero, all but bread, covering, 
and fehelter being discarded as superfluities. There 
seemed no space for even a newspaper. The doors 
of the three rooms composing the flat stood open, 
and, by the disagreeable arrangement common in 
Paris, communicated with each other ; quiet, much 
less privacy, was therefore out of the question. 

The abashed guest paused, irresolute. In the bed- 
room, if, indeed, that comfortable word can be applied 
to the make-believe boudoirs so-called here, a sulky, 
rather handsome young woman was sponging a noisy 
baby, before the kitchen swing-glass a portly dame 
stood complacently changing her gown, whilst the 
central apartment, study, salon, dining-room com- 
bined, presented a chaotic appearance — a child’s per- 
ambulator, a sewing machine, a photographic appa- 
ratus, being miraculously, as it seemed, found room 
for. The unfortunate master of the house, whose 
writing-table was drawn close to the window for the 
sake of light, alas! after space, the dearest com- 
modity in over-built P^ris, evidently pursued his 
literary work under extraordinary difficulties. Even 
the presence of a stranger did not prevent a run- 
ning fire of conversation, mostly of an unamiable 
tenor, between the two ladies, the young wife and 
her mother appearing to see everything from an 
opposite point of view.- 

“ I intrude,” stammered the visitor, bowing bare- 


20 


THE noMANGE OF 


headed to his hostesses, who returned the compli- 
ment each by slamming her own door. 

“Not in the very leasts” was the alert reply. 
“Here is a seat for you,” added the master. Glan- 
cing round, he swept an armful of newly- ironed linen 
from the single armchair, then, opening the door, 
flung his burden into the kitchen with as much 
vehemence as Argan his obnoxious pillows in the 
play. 

“ Suzanne, Suzanne,” cried the mother-in-law, 
“your husband is gone clean stark mad, all the 
clean shirts and shifts gone into the refuse-pail,” 
and the peevish retort came from the half-opened 
door of the opposite room, — 

“What is that to me ? Can’t I be left in peace 
for a few minutes ? ” 

“ Ladies will have their little differences on these 
minor points. An argumentative turn,* I have ob- 
served, is a characteristic of the fair sex,” said 
the host good-naturedly. “Let us pay no heed, 
but chat at our ea-se. You will have a glass of 
beer ? ” 

“ Indeed, no ; I want no refreshment, thank you.” 

“ Nonsense ! Suzanne, my angel, where is the 
Bock ?” he said, again opening the door of the bed- 
room. Baby’s screams, however, quite prevented 
him from making himself heard. 

“ I insist upon the child being tubbed every 
day, after English fashion. I intend to give her a 
flne physique and an education a la Spencer. She 
will, I hope, take more kindly to these tilings in 
time. Ah ! here is the Bock, it was in the sideboard 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


21 


of course, and two glasses. Your health and pros- 
perity, my dear friend. Well? ” There was a tem- 
porary lull. For a brief interval baby held her 
peace, and mamma and grandmamma also. The pair 
could hear each other speak. 

“ Nay, I came hither rather to listen than to hold 
forth,” the newly -made pastor answered. “ It is now 
two years since we lost sight of each other. How 
have you fared meanwhile ? ” 

“ Badly, as you probably know by this time ; an 
unfrocked priest is handicapped in the struggle for 
life. He comes into the world, so to say, a second 
time, helpless, as from his mother’s womb, not mas- 
ter of a single trade which will cover his nakedness 
and fill his belly. Excuse my homely speech. As 

a pastor you will be provided for 

“ My motives were not material ” 

“ Of cours5 not. I understand, you retain your 
Christianity, whilst disregarding Romanism. My 
own case is wholly different. I reasoned myself 
into Agnosticism. I was thrown entirely upon my 
own resources. How I have managed to live, how 
I contrive to support myself and my little family 
now, is a mystery. I ought not to have undertaken 
these responsibilities so soon. But my character, 
my temperament, differ essentially from your own. 
The companionship of women, the domestic affec- 
tions, the joys of paternity — confound that child, 

screaming again He jumped up from his seat, 

opened the bedroom door, and exclaimed, — 

Now, Suzanne, must I come and amuse baby ? ” 
“I am sure I wish you would,” cried the young 


22 


THE ROMANCE OF 


mother snappishly. Then the door was violently 
shut, and the speaker went on, — 

“ Family life is an absolute necessity of my exist- 
ence, but family life, even on the humblest scale, is 
a luxury one has to pay dearly for in Paris. I have 
as many trades as an octopus has limbs, some of my 
own invention. I make a little money, for example, 
by writing Latin epitaphs. The great stonemasons 
round about Pere- la- Chaise and Montmartre employ 
me. Then I compile neat little biographies of newly- 
elected deputies, and obituary notices of local celeb- 
rities. Their relations like to see them made much 
of in the newspapers. Photographer, commission 
agent, ecclesiastical embroiderer — I will show you 
some of my art needlework — supernumerary ac- 
countant, bookkeeper, nurse in fever hospitals ; these 
are a few of my callings, and what wijih five francs 
here and there, we are kept going. But it is hard 
work.” 

“ Your health apparently has not suffered. You 
have not aged. You are cheerful.” 

“Yes. I did not come into the world with the 
name of Jeunet for nothing. I can’t look oldish, do 
what I will ; low spirits don’t pay, and a downcast 
mind and a long face are the worst business invest- 
ments going. I revel in my newly-acquired liberty, 
— freedom to speak, act, live as a rational being. A 
wife, too, the fond companion of the fireside, has no 
longer to be hidden, like the candle spoken of in 
Scripture, under a bushel. With the place to my- 
self, a cigarette, a glass of Bock, and a quire of paper 
to scribble on, I envy no man.” 


A FBENCU PABSONAGE. 23 

“ You believe in your pen? You propose to de- 
vote yourself to literature ? ” 

“ I am writing a novel, which, if I can carry out 
my idea, and if I mistake not the signs of the times, 
will create a pretty commotion. But it is now your 
own turn to hold forth. You will, of course, follow 
my example, and marry ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” ejaculated the other almost 
solemnly. 

His host drew nearer, glanced round to assure 
himself that both doors were closed, then said, — 

“ Do you for a moment suppose that these little 
altercations indicate an unhappy household ? Women 
have not the absorbing occupations of our sex. They 
naturally wax warm about trifles, and,” he dropped 
his voice to a whisper, “ my dear little wife is a daugh- 
ter of people only just able to read and write. You 
can look hi^er ” 

Just then the doors of both kitchen and bedroom 
were opened brusquely. Out of the flrst came the 
mother-in-law, her comfortable proportions arrayed 
in Sunday best, her cheeks red with vexation as the 
poppy in her bonnet. 

“ You will kill that child with those drenchings,” 
she said, addressing herself to Monsieur Jeunet, 
utterly ignoring the presence of a stranger. “ And 
are you gone crazy, Suzanne? Baby in a white 
frock, and an easterly wind ! ” 

For sole answer the young mother plumped the 
child into her little carriage, whereupon the elder 
lady threw off her bonnet and shawl, and declared 
that Suzanne might walk out by herself. She would 


24 


THE BOMANCE OF 


not be a party to such rash proceedings. So she 
stormed on, Suzanne moving off with the perambu- 
lator, finally the discarded bonnet being resumed, and 
the other following under protest. 

“ Thank God ! they are off at last ; now we shall 
be in Paradise ! ” ejaculated the host with a sigh of 
relief. “ These little domestic storms but serve to 
intensify the enjoyment of after calms.” 

His hearer smiled. Surely it were hardly worth 
while to take a wife for the sake of enjoying, not 
her company, but her absence ! 

“ You will marry, yourself, I feel sure of it,” he 
went on. “ Opportunities will come in your way, 
will be forced upon you. Already I have had a lady 
here seeking information.” 

“ Accord none, I entreat you. Let my movements 
remain obscure. I ask this as a personal favour. 
However,” added Pastor Evelard with a sigh, “ the 
gossiping of all Paris can matter little to me now. I 
shall soon be as completely lost sight of as if I were 
already sleeping in the tomb.” 

“ Your plans so far are settled then. You have 
already a pastorate ? ” 

“ By the oddest chance in the world, by what I 
must regard as a piece of good luck, I am appointed 
to the very post I should have chosen for myself, a 
remote parish on the south-west coast. The spot I 
kno V, by hearsay — ^none sweeter in France — and the 
half rural, half sea-faring population come of an al- 
most unmixed Huguenot stock. What I craved for 
was entire repose.” 

“ You will get your heart’s desire, and no mistake,” 


A FBElfCH PABSONAGE. 


25 


replied the other with a grimace. “ How call you 
your sweet spot ? ” 

“ St. Gilles-sur-Mer.” 

“ I know, a little fishing village on the mouth of the 
Gironde. My dear fellow, you will be buried alive 
daring nine months of the year. In the summer, I 
hear, a handful of bathers frequent the place. If 
my novel succeeds I will pay St. Gilles a visit next 
year. I am bent upon baby learning to swim. But 
what on earth will you do with yourself at the world’s 
end ? Mind and take the best talker who ever lived 
with you.” 

So saying, he pointed to a well-thumbed Rabelais 
that lay on his writing-table. 

“I have a better talker still here,” replied the 
other, his face for the first time showing animation. 

He forthwith produced an equally well-worn copy 
of the New Testament. 

“ I won’t contradict you ; only Rabelais is human, 
the other impeccable, divine if you will. We pec- 
cable mortals can’t feel quite at home in such com- 
pany.” 

“ It is strange,” pursued the newly-made Protes- 
tant, his eyes kindling as he turned over the leaves, 
« it is incomprehensible to me now that the wit — 
you will not accuse me of irreverence, I know ; in 
truth, our language wants the fitting word — the un- 
imaginable, inimitable, superhuman wit of these 
august utterances has, for the most part, escaped 
the gross intelhgence of humanity.” 

« Say, rather, they have been set aside, kept out 
of sight,” was the rejoinder. “You see, my dear 


26 


THE ROMANCE OF 


friend, like so many lightning flashes, they daze, 
blind, confound all who have the courage to face 
them. I admit the human Rabelais suits me 
better.” 

The pastor glanced from page to page of his tiny 
volume. 

“ ‘ Render unto Csesar that which is Caesar’s — Let 
him who is without sin cast the first stone — Cast 
not your pearls before swine.’ Such sayings, and 
they are legion, soar as high above any other moral 
apothegms with which we are familiar as the moon 
above the earth. Yet whilst we recognise their 
inspiration, their diamond- like piercingness, their 
angelic purity, no sooner do we seek to assimilate 
them with our own modes of thought and action, 
than they are debased, parodied, past recognition. 
Note another point. What have these awful and 
lovely lessons to do with the march of science and 
mere human knowledge? Nothing. Ail that is 
real, vital, living, of the religion of Christ may be 
preached and practiced by the most advance phi- 
losopher or scientist going.” 

‘ If you discourse in that strain to the tisher-folk 
of St. Gilles, you will be casting your pearls before 
swine with a vengeance. Seriously speaking, you 
ought to have a pulpit in a large city. You would 
make converts, obtain a second and more brilliant 
reputation as an orator, be another Lamennais.” 

“ I have little ambition. Enough for me that my 
life is no longer a lie, that I lead not others astray.” 

“ You will then, I suppose, occupy yourself with 
pen and ink, Every liberal or purely literary orgau 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 27 

\Yili welcome you with open arms. France awaits 
her Dollinger.” 

“ Indeed, literary fame is far from my thoughts, 
the world of polemics farther still.” 

“ Man alive ! you must do something ! You can’t 
live like John the Baptist in the wilderness.” 

His hearer smiled. 

“ Between John the Baptist and Lamennais and a 
Dollinger is a wide space. An obscure position does 
not necessarily imply banishment.” 

“ In heaven’s sake don’t enrol yourself in the Sal- 
vation Army.” 

The other again smiled as he rose to take leave. 

‘‘Never fear. Rowdyism in religion is as dis- 
tasteful to me as downright scoffing, and, to my 
thinking, hardly less reprehensible. But how it 
fares with me you shall know from time to time. 
I will write.” 

“ I hope so, I am sure. You shall hear from me 
also. I should like your opinion of my novel as it 
goes on. And; of course, the embargo of silence just 
laid upon me is conditional. You would not wish 
me to withhold a plain answer to a plain question ! ” 

“ By no means. I am not hiding myself. I have 
done nothing to be ashamed of.” 

They parted in friendliest fashion, the one to be- 
take himself to the nearest railway station, the other 
to pen the following note : — 

“ Madame, — I am now happy to be able to afEord 
you the information you desire. My esteemed 
friend Pastor Evelard, late vicar of St. Maxime, in 
this city, is appointed to the commune of St. Gille§- 


28 


THE BOMANCE OF 


sur-Mer, Charente Inferience, and assumes the duties 
of his new position in a few days. I beg you to 
receive, Madame, the expression of my most respect- 
ful esteem. 

“Jean Jacques Jeunet. 

“ P. S. — The wood and wine you kindly ordered 
will be delivered within the course of a day or two, 
and will, I trust, give entire satisfaction. I forgot 
to mention that I am also agent for an English 
woollen manufacturer, and can supply genuine gar^ 
ments of pure lambswool for both sexes direct from 
the works. Price-list enclosed. 

“J. J. J.” 


A FRENCB PAUSONAGE, 


29 


CHAPTER III. 

A WELCOME. 

The new pastor could hardly have reached St. 
Gilles at a more auspicious moment. An Oriental 
warmth of colour wrapped the scene : of deep, un- 
clouded amethyst the sky; bright as enamelled 
picture, the delicious little bay with its gold brown 
sands smooth as velvet, its bordering forests of 
many-tinted green, its mingling sea and river, blue 
as the heavens above. Far away in mid- Atlantic, 
delicately painted on the pale amber horizon, rises 
the oldest lighthouse in Europe, the mighty Cor- 
douan, difficult of access to the stoutest-hearted even 
in smooth weather. A few fishermen’s dwellings, 
and a score or two of new toylike chalets dot the 
high ground of the bay, but the village lies inland. 
So kindly is ISTature here that the business of the 
husbandman and the sailor can be combined. Little 
farms lie close to the sea, and every fisherman 
possesses his veteran fig-tree and garden. Tamarisk 
trees in rosy bloom hedge tiny cornfields planted 
high above the shore, and ilex groves on the edge of 
the cliff protect vineyards, all the more precious for 
their smallness. Below, amid the undulating sands 
and broken pine forests, large white butterflies 
sport by myriads, whilst the wild evening primrose 
and carnation make the air heavy with fragrance. 


30 


THE BOMANCE OF 


The newly-appointed pastor, although a man of 
the world and of somewhat sedentary habits, 
revelled in this sense of repose and deliciousness. It 
seemed to him that here, if anywhere in the world, 
a sick spirit and an overstrained mind might find 
healing and balance : that now, if ever, he might 
break off with his old life and begin to live 
indeed. 

He felt as one who had ridden himself of a 
heritage which had been altogether usurpation and 
glamour. That once glorified power over men’s, 
and, above all, women’s consciences ; that once 
triumphant sway, not only of the weak and the 
insignificant, but of the capable, and, socially-speak- 
ing, the mighty ; that spiritual inquisition, handled 
mercilessly and subtly as the bodily, now repudiated 
by the feeling of universal humanity — what were all 
these but an unholy, an unjustifiable usurpation ? 
His future was at any rate a clean page. He 
could write thereon what he would. To most men 
the prospect before him would have been far 
from endearing. 

The little fife that animated St. Gilles would van- 
ish with the first cloud, the prelusive rain-drop. 
These long, unbroken, brilliant summers always 
ended on a sudden, and with them the bathing 
season. During the long, monotonous winter, the 
pastor here must depend absolutely upon himself, or 
take occasional trips to Bordeaux and the lesser, 
towns within easy reach, for the sake of distraction 
and society. None whatever were to be had at home. 
There was the village priest, certainly, with whom, 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 

he was informed, his predecessor had fraternised ; 
there was the schoolmaster ; beside these, only the 
peasants and sea-faring folk, for the most part art- 
less and unlettered as their ancestors who had wor- 
shipped in caves or mid-ocean, always at peril of 
theii’ lives. 

The sense of isolation which would have appalled 
most men came welcomely to Pastor Evelard. He 
said to himself that he should at last have time to 
do the one thing in his life he had longed to do in 
vain he could now be idle ! He could live a little 
for himself, which may often be a man’s first, highest 
duty. 

Thinking these thoughts, he strolled from end to 
end of the straggling village, close-shuttered, its fig- 
trees lyhite with dust, its aspect recalling Jerusalem ; 
next he wandered on the smooth brown sands, 
where a dozen ladies and children in red fiannel 
bathing-dresses were disporting themselves ; finally 
climbing the sand hills, lost his way in the pine 
forest. 

What a glowing, delicious world was here ! Ankle 
deep in the silvery- white dust he made slow pro- 
gress, about him the cool shadows of pine and larch ; 
in his ears the murmurous, musical little sea- waves ; 
above, the glorious sky of the Gironde. 

And what an adorable solitude ! He had there 
shady coverts to himself, only the buzzing of the 
bees and the rippling tide broke the stillness. 

On a sudden he came upon a carriage- road, cut, as it 
seemed, for somebody’s pleasure, through the very 
heart of the wood. Following it, he caught sight of 


82 


TBE BOMANCE OF 


lofty palisades, a bit of garden wall, roof of stable 
and green-house; at last, of a porter’s lodge and 
handsome iron gate. That vision of adorable soli- 
tude was gone in a moment. He had been misin- 
formed then? St. Gilles was not altogether the 
primitive spot he had been led to believe. 

The world of fashion was no mere intruder here 
for a brief period of the year, but an abiding element, 
a permanent feature, not to be ignored or reasoned 
away. This chateau, with its park- like grounds and 
dependencies, might indicate much more than met 
the eye. 

Perhaps it was only the seat of some wealthy 
Protestant merchant of Bordeaux; quite as pro- 
bably it was the winter resort of some leader of 
society, attaching to their solitudes the wit, the 
intrigue, and the feverish excitement of Paris. 

As he approached he saw a board, on which were 
inscribed the words : — 

“To Let ok To Sell.” 

“ The place was unoccupied, then,” he mused, and 
seeing the front gate open glanced within. 

Here were lawns, flower-plots, shrubberies, after 
English fashion ; a broad gravelled road leading to 
the house. 

“ Come in, sir,” said a cheery stable-man. “ Our 
new pastor, I reckon. Pll be pleased to take you 
round ; this was a kind of show-place when the 
English milord lived here.” 

“ You are one of my congregation, I daresay,” the 
pastor replied, holding out his hand. 


A FBENCH PAESONAGE. 


33 


“ True enough, sir ; we’re mostly Protestants here- 
abouts ; you may tell us from the Catholics. I don’t 
know how it is. ’Tis like the breed of sheep — ^ 
there’s a something that marks one from another. 
I’ll just take down this board and then show you 
the stables and greenhouses.” 

“ The chateau is let or sold?” 

“Within the last four-and- twenty hours, sir; let 
with the option of purchase. A lady came to look 
at it two days ago, posted back to Paris, and the 
news has just come by telegram.” 

He produced a crumpled form from his pocket 
and handed it to the other. 

“Maybe you know the lady, as you come from 
Paris they tell me. Madame Delinon, that is the 
name.” 

Pastor Evelard glanced at the telegram, then 
returned it with a brusqueness that somewhat 
disconcerted his companion. 

“ The name of Madame Delinon is not unfamiliar 
to me,” he said. “ Thank you, my friend, for so 
obligingly offering to show me over the place. Some 
other time I will claim your good offices. Adieu.” 

He hastened on, the other watching him out of 
sight with a perplexed face, glancing again and again 
at the telegram. Before consigning it to his pocket, 
he mused, — 

“ What has the pastor got into his head? Some- 
thing, that’s quite certain. He doesn’t like the look 
of things. Well, I’ll make inquiries, pretty strict 
ones too, at Bordeaux. I’m not going to hire my- 
self to an adventuress, the kind of female Phyllox- 
3 


84 


THE BOMANGE OF 


era we read of in novels, not I. The lady looked 
honest enough, certainly, but there’s no getting to 
the bottom of a woman’s cunning.” 

Meantime, the pastor walked on, not unmindful 
of the witchery of the place and the hour. 

She here ! Madame Delinon, his near neighbour ; 
Georgette, his parishioner ! Did she know of his 
appointment ? Could she have followed him to 
these solitudes ? But no ! Away with such prompt- 
ings of self-sufficiency. A freak of fortune, a mere 
accident, some strange concatenation of events, ac- 
counted for her coming, nothing more. 

That simile of the white page so lately in his 
mind; the blank leaf of life, to be written over, 
filled in at will, was no longer appropriate. Even 
here he was not alone I 


A I'BENCB PABSONAGE 


35 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE INAUGURATION. 

On the following Sunday all the population turned 
out to welcome their pastor. Such an event is 
ever important in these little Huguenot communi- 
ties. The country folks are anxious to learn what 
manner of man the newly- appointed minister may 
be, whether his doctrine is sound — that is to say, 
precisely like that they are accustomed to, whether 
he is the right man in the right place ; in other 
words, a proper person to administer the rites of 
baptism, marriage and burial ; by his oratory they 
set small store. Several pastors from the neigh- 
bouring towns had come to assist in the ceremony, 
but the congregation consisted entirely of the 
villagers. 

When, after the usual prayers, singing, and read- 
ing of Scripture, Pastor Evelard ascended the pulpit, 
a striking sight met his eyes. The plain white- 
washed building was nearly full. Alike husband- 
man and sea-far ers rest from their labours here on 
Sunday, and at this season of the year there was 
nothing extra going on afield or ashore necessitating 
the absence of some. Old and young, the men as 
well as the women, the well-to-do and the poorer, 
had fiocked to service to-day, two or three hundred, 
for the most part in sober black, tilling aisles and 


36 


T^E ROMANCE OE 


gallery. Immediately under the pulpit, seated in a 
semicircle, sat the. veterans of the community, the 
elders of the little church of St. Gilles. This group 
of old men, — silver-haired, ruddy-complexioned, 
keen-eyed — once seen remained pictured on the 
memory. Not a head here but was worthy of a 
Rembrandt’s pencil. These patriarchs were bent 
with toil, their hands roughened with labour. The 
Sunday broadcloth became them less than the week- 
day blouse, yet each figure had a dignity of its own. 
In one aged man, with snow-white hair, Roman fea- 
tures, and tawny, beardless face, the staunch Hu- 
guenot of old seemed to live again. Here was that 
calm and resolution betokening the fiery spirit, the 
indomitable conviction, the unswerving faith, that 
led his ancestors to brave fire and sword, ruin and 
desolation, rather than surrender conscience. 

Nor was the physiognomy of the women less 
marked. They in turn recalled the steadfast wives 
and unfiinching mothers, who could endure separa- 
tion from husband and children, every kind of 
mental anguish and bodily privation, but not a per- 
jured soul ; adhering to the black hood and cloak of 
their ancestresses, they also sunburnt and toil-worn, 
— the feminine portion of the assembly, perhaps, had 
a severer look than the other. 

As a relief to the sombre picture were the light 
frocks and straw hats, trimmed with fiowers and 
ribbons, of the little girls, whilst above the heads 
of all, through the low square windows of unstained 
glass, showed the lovely, luminous landscape, vine- 
yard and orchard, pearly sea, gleaming sands set 


A FBENCH PAUSONAGE. 


37 


round with pine woods, far away the lofty light- 
house, a column of alabaster reaching from silvery 
wave to golden heaven ! 

For the first time in his career the preacher ac- 
knowledged himself at a loss. 

The irresistible orator, on whose fervid utterances 
polished audiences had hung breathlessly, whose 
searching rhetoric had moved leaders of men, whose 
elocution had been the school of advocates and 
politiciafis, now hesitated before a handful of peas- 
ants and fisherfolk. 

He had realised at a first glance that his listeners 
wanted no moving appeals or passionate reawaken- 
ings ; they had fiocked hither to hear what they had 
already heard scores of times before. This religion 
clung to so tenaciously, under no condition whatever 
to be forfeited, had in a certain sense and by sheer 
force of habit lost vitality. 

Huguenots they were as their fathers of old, and 
Huguenots they would remain ; but they did not 
ask from their minister new lights or spiritual illu- 
mination. Their faith was there. No need to call it 
into question. The weekly sermon had become as 
much a matter of routine as the wearing of Smiday 
broadcloth. 

Clearly, then, the pastor’s duty was that of rigid 
self-suppression, a narrowing down of his intellectual 
and spiritual views to the requirements of his audi- 
ence. He must be unambitious, neutral, compara- 
tively effortless, would he win the confidence of this 
naive assemblage. 

The idyllic scene before his eyes, the placid, land- 


38 


THE BOMANCE OF 


locked bay, the mellow tints of intervening vineyard 
and garden, the noonday languor bathing all, gave 
a happy turn to his thoughts. Pictures like this 
had met his gaze when, an ardent pilgrim in years 
gone by, he had lingered on the sacred shores of 
Galilee. The theme was apt, and lent itself to the 
simplest treatment. 

Without figure of speech or seeking after effect, 
in language so deliciously pure, so telling as to seem 
a very echo of Scripture itself, he gave his listeners 
ratlier a pastoral than a homily, a little prose poem 
that beguiled the imagination of all. No fault could 
be found with such a discourse, it was wholly uncon- 
troversial, it raised no vexed questions. The preacher 
merely brought before them the lovely scene and 
the lovely life even materialised man is apt to forget. 

“ Where, if not here, indeed, should the teachings 
of the divine Nazarene be remembered, abided by?” 
he asked, as he drew to an end. ‘ “ Where should 
faith, constancy, blamelessness of life be looked for, 
if not amid these sunny vineyards, by this tranquil 
shore, recalling as they do just such scenes as Jesus 
gazed on when fulfilling His mission ? Small wonder 
that your forefathers held fast to the faith that was 
in them ! Here, in a remote corner of their beloved 
country, they were perpetually reminded of that 
fair land of Galilee, where was founded the religion 
that made new the world. Here we, too, may turn 
from Gospel narrative to Nature, saying to ourselves, 
amid surroundings like these, ‘ The Teacher spoke, 
with such daily reminders before us, shall we turn a 
deaf ear ? ’ ” 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 39 

Comedy, often of grotesque kind, follows close on 
the pathos of life. 

The preacher had fairly reached the vestry door 
when he found himself caught in a man’s embrace, 
a pair of arms holding him with vice-like firmness, 
a bearded face pressed again and again to his own. 

If there was one superfiuity of affectionateness 
Pastor Evelard objected to, it was this kind of greet- 
ing between man and man. That the softer nature 
of women could take delight in such demonstrations 
of attachment he was able to understand. To be 
kissed and hugged by a bearded admirer in public, 
as the unfortunate Monsieur de Pourceaugnac is 
treated by Eraste on the stage, seemed to him little 
short of an affront. 

A second, a third time, he tried to disengage him- 
self in vain. 

“ My dear brother, my esteemed colleague,” ex- 
claimed the offender, returning to the attack. “ My 
beloved fellow-servant of Christ, my honoured co- 
worker in the Church, how delighted I am to see 
you again. A thousand, thousand welcomes.” 

“ I must ask your pardon ; I frankly confess that 
I do not know you,” was the somewhat distant 
answer. 

“Not know me? Impossible. Look again,” said 
the other standing, proudly back, to be looked at, 
identified, admired. He was a young man, fresh- 
complexioned, large-featured, brawny, on whose an- 
gular limbs the black gown sat gracelessly. His 
hands, too, were unusually large, — always a draw- 
back in a pulpit orator. If niggardly with regard 


40 


THE ROMANCE OF 


to outward appearance, Nature had more than atoned 
for the deficiency by her all-compensating gift of 
self-confidence. The young pastor enjoyed the 
supreme faith in his own endowments and capacities 
that can render the possessor the happiest being 
under the sun. 

“ Now, indeed, I do remember you,” answered the 
elder man, as he recalled the ecstatic apologist of a 
few weeks ago. His heart sank within him. Was 
this irrepressible, self-sufficient coxcomb to be his 
neighbour ? 

“Ah! could you forget your fellow- candidate ? 
your, so to say, twin-brother in the ministry ? How 
I have prayed for you ! longed to take sweet counsel 
with you ! And the Lord has graciously heard my 
prayer. I am appointed to a commune but two 
leagues off.” 

The voluble speaker was here interrupted by the 
elders of the church, who were also functionaries of 
the village. Alike, mayor and municipal councillor 
now crowded romid their pastor with outstretched 
hands. These sturdy, hard-headed farmers and 
fishermen knew something of Evelard’s history. 
They wanted him to feel that, provided he fulfilled 
his pastoral duties in a satisfactory manner, and lived 
with the sobriety incumbent on a minister of rehgion, 
the tonsure would never be considered matter for 
reproach. That they should triumph over the fact 
of such a secession was far from their thoughts. To 
adhere to the faith of one^s fathers was a principle, 
in their eyes, almost sacred as the Commandments. 
The hearty greetings, the friendly hand- shakes, 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


41 


encouraged Evelard. He felt almost elated at the 
thought that he had touched a chord, found his way 
to these simple hearts and artless imaginations. 

“ I’ve no fault to find with your discourse,” said 
the foremost of the hand, the white-haired patriarch 
with the Roman features. “ But we are homely folks, 
Mr. Pastor. So long as we are baptised, married, 
and laid in the earth as Protestants, we are content ; 
we could dispense with sermons altogether. How- 
ever, as I said just now, I’ve no fault to find with 
yours.” 

The old peasant’s speech disconcerted Evelard not 
a little. Was his office to he mere matter of routine, 
hardly higher than that of grave-digger? The fact 
came painfully home to him that he was a stranger 
to these practical sea-faring folk. Another con- 
clusion surprised him no less unwelcomely. How 
lukewarm seemed the faith for which their ances- 
tors had suffered martyrdom ! 


42 


TEE ROMANCE OF 


CHAPTER V. 

THE REBUKE. 

The little congregation poured into the hot, noon- 
day glare. The knot of pastors and village func- 
tionaries broke up, only the new minister stayed 
behind. 

He had breakfasted with his colleagues at one 
homely board, and was now pressed to join them at 
another, but declined — he needed solitude. 

Up to the present time he had lodged in the vil- 
lage, the parsonage-house being under repair. To- 
day, bare, almost uninhabitable although it still was, 
he took possession. Turning the key, he groped his 
way through the passage in semi-darkness, every 
shutter being closed on account of the burning sun- 
shine. Throwing wide the casements as he went, 
he soon flooded the place with light, making out flrst 
one object, then another, amid the prevailing dis- 
order. Here was a bed, there an armchair and table, 
in another corner his travelling trunk. 

The house was commodious, whole and newly 
whitewashed ; when his books and furniture should 
arrive he promised himself as pleasant a home as a 
country pastor could desire. An ancient Huguenot 
woman had been engaged to do the household work. 
Here, at least, he mused, I shall be my own master. 
I shall enjoy entire hberty and peace. 


A FRENCH F ARSON AGE. 


48 


Hardly had the thought crossed his mind, when 
the sound of a man’s heavy tread on the bare floor 
outside caught his ear. He remembered suddenly 
that he had left the key in the lock, some intruder 
was already stealing a march upon him. 

“ It is only I, dear brother,” cried a hilarious, self- 
approving voice, “ only your friend and fellow- worker 
in the Lord. May the Reverend Barthelemy Bour- 
geois — that is my name — come in ? ” 

“ It seems that you have dispensed with my per- 
mission,” was the dry answer. “ I admit, I should 
prefer to be alone just now, but since you are here, 
tell me your errand. That need not detain you 
long.” 

Too self-occupied to notice the implied rebuke, the 
other prattled on, 

“ Bourgeois is my name, and bourgeois the con- 
dition of life to which I was born. Did you ever 
hear of a more curious coincidence ? ” he laughed. 
“ I must tell you, however — you will not think the 
worse of me, I am sure — I come originally of peasant 
stock ” 

“ So I should gather,” dropped inadvertently from 
the other’s lips. 

That remark had no sobering effect either. Un- 
susceptible as the immortal bore of the First Satire, 
he coolly disrobed himself, hung his black gown on 
a cloak pin in the hall, then took the vacant chair, 
stretching out his long legs, and. rubbing his hands 
with a look of ineffable satisfaction. 

“ To think that you should be here, and I within 
an easy walk. What are four leagues to me! a 


44 


THE BOMANCE OF 


mere nothing, not worth thinking about. My dear 
friend, I must believe that the Lord’s finger is in it 
all. We are neighbours, because we are necessary 
to each other’s spiritual advancement. I, of course, 
know your history,” he added in a patronising, 
deeply-pitying tone. “ It has made you very, very 
dear to me.” 

The hstener could no longer conceal his impa- 
tience ; disgust, perhaps, were the apter word. 

“Pardon me,” he said, with a ruffled look, “ I have 
much on my hands to-day. May I learn the busi- 
ness that brought you here ? ” 

Even those words, pointedly spoken, failed to im- 
press the exuberant speaker. 

“Listen,” he said, drawing nearer to his host and 
clutching his arm, “ I see how fruitful may be our 
intercourse, what sweet truth we may be the means 
of imparting to one another. Y ou are a learned man, 
I am no scholar. Beautifully, mider the Lord’s bless- 
ing, we may now supply each other’s deficiencies. 
I am ignorant of many branches of knowledge neces- 
sary to the preacher, but in spiritual illumination 
I have been blessed from my cradle upwards. Come 
to me, then, dear brother, in all your doubts, difflcul- 
ties. I, your pupil, in turn, will imbibe classic lore 
and philosophy.” 

When the tirade at last came to an end. Pastor 
Evelard sat with lips imsealed. 

More than once he had been on the point of roughly 
snapping the thread of the insufferable discourse, 
crushing the offender with well-deserved rebuke. 
But he hesitated. There was so much evident siU' 


J FitENCH PAitSOMAGE. 45 

cerity, so much harmlessness about this poor crea- 
ture, so he called him, that stinging satire or scath- 
ing epigram seemed quite out of proportion to the 
offence. The man’s tongue must be stopped for all 
that. 

“ My poor young friend,” he began, his exquisite 
enunciation strikingly contrasted with the other’s 
spluttering accents. “ To what self-deceptions have 
you allowed yourself to give ear ? What vain illu- 
sions are these you confess to a stranger, that stranger 
your senior by many years, how much your elder in 
matters of knowledge and experience ? Reflect for 
a moment, summon reason to your aid. Should I, 
above all men, think you, conflde the most delicate 
secrets, the most complex mental problems, to a raw 
recruit in the ministry — you must admit the justice 
of the simile — one confessedly an alien to learning, 
and, I must believe, to the world ? No, young sir, 
conflne your ambitions within legitimate bounds. 
Be content to teach those more ignorant than 
yourself.” 

The admonition, although hardly accepted in such 
a light, set the ex-evangelist thinking. He looked 
on the ground, not discountenanced, but evidently 
debating within his own mind. 

“You are a very learned man, they told me, and 
now I believe it,” he replied at last. 

“ I have certainly given more time to books and 
reflection than most,” was the quiet answer. 

“ I daresay there is hardly a subject in which I 
desire instruction that you have not at your Angers’ 
ends.” 


4 ^ 


THE nOMAECE OE 


“ That may well be.” 

“ You write Latin and Greek, I’ll wager, as easily 
as your mother tongue ? ” 

“ Such proficiency is required of the — seminarist,” 
was on the ex-priest’s lips ; he added, instead, “ the 
student in theology, before taking holy orders.” 

“ I hear you are one of the best Hebrew and 
Arabic scholars in the countiy ? ” 

“Yes, I studied these languages in the East.” 

“ And the Aristotelian philosophy, Church history. 
Patristic lore, scholasticism, metaphysics, logic, — 
you cannot deny it, you are at home with every one,” 
continued the other, growing painfully eager. “ Oh, 
my dear, dear brother, do not turn a deaf ear to my 
prayer. Give me learning — and never fear that you 
will not be rewarded a hundred, nay, a thousandfold. 
You see before you a chosen vessel, an instrument 
especially appointed to do the Lord’s work. But as 
yet with me spiritual illumination far outstrips 
intellectual attainment. I would fain unite the 
subtlety of Paul with the faith of Peter.” 

“What do you want to learn?” asked the 
scholar, unable to resist a smile. Bourgeois’ 
grotesque vanity irritated, his sincerity disarmed 
criticism. 

“ What do I want to learn ? Everything ! ” was 
the exuberant reply. “ Everything we have been 
talking about. I mean the Hebrew Scriptures, the 
Greek Testament, Plato and Aristotle, St. Augustin 
and St. Thomas Aquinas, Descartes’ system of phi- 
losophy, Kant’s metaphysics, cosmography, dialec- 
tics ” 


A FRENC3 PARSONAGE. 47 

The voluble speaker seemed no more inclined to 
stop than Homer when counting his ships. 

His listener interrupted him with a gesture. 

“ Young man,” he said, still quietly ironic. “ With 
learning, as with life, the knotty point is not how to 
leave off but how to begin. Have a care that the 
first step be made in the right direction, and the 
tyro will hardly go astray. These subjects you 
enumerate — so glibly, are not to be plunged into 
headlong. Each requires a many-staged preparation. 
To pursue philosophy, for instance, with any profit, 
we must be familiar with history, and where should 
such a study begin but with that of our own country ? 
Could you, from your own memory — without any 
extraneous help whatever — write the briefest pos- 
sible outline of French history ? ” 

Indeed, I could not; could anyone, could you?” 
asked the listener, aghast at the very proposition. 

“ Let us next take the Greek Testament,” Evelard 
went on, not heeding the question. “ The study of 
a foreign language, especially that of a civilisation 
passed away, is altogether unfruitful unless we have 
thoroughly mastered our own. I gather — excuse 
the frank observation — that you have not hitherto 
been enabled to pay the attention to French grammar 
so essential to one in your present position.” 

“ Ah ! I have made a slip here and there ? But 
we will soon put these minor points right,” was the 
cheerful reply. 

“ Then you alluded just now to such abstruse 
subjects as metaphysics, dialectics, and so forth. 
Let us know what we are about. Can you give an 


48 


TBE ROMANCE OF 


exact definition of these words, the simplest pos- 
sible, but exact ? ” 

“ With a little thought and just a glance at the 
dictionary I could, — I am never sure of my accents, 
and never had a knack at spelling.” 

“ Ah ! ” said his host rising. “ Now the air is clearer, 
now we can see more than an inch beyond our 
noses ! Attain, no matter how laboriously, the A B 
C of knowledge, then talk of Plato and Aristotle ! 
Under the circumstances I cannot refuse to help you. 
But remember ! the master fixes the hour, and 
limits the duration of the lesson. We will confer 
thereupon laterj I must really beg you to leave me 
now. Nay, no thanks, no effusions.” 

“ My beloved brother, my hand, then, since you 
will not permit a brotherly, an apostolic kiss ” 

“Demonstrativeness is silver, but reserve is 
golden,” was the reply. 

Then the visitor was bowed out and the key of the 
front door withdrawn. Hardly had the pastor re- 
entered the room when he heard the door-knocker 
plied vigorously. 

Already another intruder ? 

On opening the door an inch or two he saw the 
large figure of the irrepressible evangelist. 

“ A moment, one moment only, my dear friend,” 
he said, as he-contrived to wriggle in. “ I had an- 
other favour to ask you, our conversation was so 
absorbing that I clean forgot it. You are to have a 
great lady from Paris as neighbour and parishioner 
Madame Delinon, the purchaser of the chateau. Do 
you happen to know her ? ” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 49 

The pointblank question evidently annoyed Eve- 
lard not a little. He answered distantly, — 

“We have met in Paris.” 

“ Ah ! I felt sure of it ; a man like yourself always 
knows everybody — everybody of consequence, I 
mean. What I want you to do is to introduce me. 
As a pastor I am entitled to good society — and good 
society I mean to get ; I have taken no end of pains 
with myself. I think I should not be out of place 
anywhere. But the grand air, the extra polish, the 
easy manners of the great — these are not to be 
learned from books. We must frequent the 
fashionable world to catch its tone. You will not 
refuse the friendly service, I am sure ? ” 

“ The lady’s wishes must first be consulted. 
Madame Delinon may desire quiet and privacy.” 

“ But a friend of yours, a friend of yours ? ” 

“ Say rather an acquaintance of a few minutes’ 
standing,” was the unpromising reply. “ However, 
we will see when the time comes.” 

And once more, and more effectually. Monsieur 
Boui'geois was bowed out. 

4 


50 


THE EOMANCE OF 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE CONVENT BELL. 

The little church and parsonage stood in open 
country, at some distance from the village and the 
sea. Both were of the most unpretentious appear- 
ance, and both of course dated from the Revolution, 
that liberty-making epoch associated generally 
with bloodshed and violence only. 

Up till that time the valiant little Protestant 
remnant settled on these remote shores, wave of the 
great outflow from the Cevennes, possessed no 
temple. True, that Turgot the Magnanimous had 
wrested from his master, the estimable, but, alas ! 
uxorious Louis Seize, certain privileges for his 
dissident subject, but as yet hberty of public 
worship and full civil rights were denied them. Not 
till our great teacher in all things, the Revolution, 
with a stroke of the pen had proclaimed liberty of 
conscience and equality of citizenship, could they 
build churches, celebrate baptism, marriage and 
burial, and educate their children, now for the 
first time legitimate in the eyes of the law. 

Whilst the church of St. Gilles hardly numbered 
a hundred years, the parsonage-house close by was 
linked with the very beginning of Protestantism 
m the commune and western seaboard of France. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


51 


Wisely, indeed, had later builders retained as much 
as was available of the ancient construction. Instead 
of demolishing the home of the so-called pastors of 
the desert, preachers of the Gospel at daily peril of 
their own lives and of those dearest to them, they 
had improved and enlarged it, the result being a 
straggling congeries, with one historic feature of 
deepest, most painful interest. 

. At the back of the premises, between kitchen and 
outhouse, had been left intact a narrow staircase 
built in the wall, leading to a tiny loft under the 
roof. 

The existence of this hiding-place would never be 
guessed by the uninitiated, and here, throughout 
generations, preachers of the Gospel had hidden from 
the dragoons of His Most Catholic Majesty. When 
the weather permitted, service was celebrated on the 
open sea, but on returning ashore the preacher would 
be hunted down like a wild beast whenever the sol- 
diers were on his track. Sometimes, imable to regain 
his home, he slept in a cavern of the tufa rocks ; at 
others, a parishioner concealed him among his hay- 
stacks or farmhouse lumber ; alike, the hider and the 
hidden being subject to fines, imprisonment, mutila- 
tion, torture and cruel death. 

That walled-in staircase and loft, reached by a 
trap-door, possessed a weird fascination for Evelard. 

Originally a full-grown man could not stand up- 
right in it, nor could he stretch himself at full length, 
whilst the only window had been a movable tile 
overhead. 

The last minister, having a numerous young fam- 


52 


THE ROMANCE OF 


ily, enlarged the hiding-place, put in a skylight, and 
made it habitable. 

It occurred to the newcomer to turn this eyrie 
into a study, at least whilst the warm weather 
lasted. 

The skylight done away with, a window thrown 
out, and he should have an ideal retreat ! 

The view on all sides was superb. As he gazed 
around, he said to himself, that with such a pros- 
pect perpetually before his eyes he might perhaps 
feel inspired to do something, in other words, to 
write. He was not ambitious, but who could resist 
such inspiration ? 

His range of vision took in the forest-girt, glitter- 
ing bay, the broad blue Gironde minglmg with the 
sea, on its bright surface many a noble ship and huge 
steamer bound for distant ports far away, the ma- 
jestic Cordouan, emblem of Truth, Faith, Freedom^ 
of all the master forces that have ever done battle 
with a selfish world. 

On the other side the panorama was hardly less 
heart-stirring. He saw an immense sweep of fair, 
open country, champagne intermingling with wood, 
pasture, cornfield and vineyard; here and there a 
village dotting the sunlit plain. The whole made 
up a picture of wondrous loveliness, peace and va- 
riety. Only one feature broke the spell, and seemed 
to blot the whole. Below, close under his eyes, lay 
the parsonage garden, hitherto cultivated more for 
use than pleasure. On either side rose a wall on 
which were trained peach, fig-trees, and tomatoes ; but 
at the end this wall was raised to an extraordinary 


A FBEJSrCH PARSONAGE, 53 

height, and was evidently the continuation of a 
neighbour’s boundary. 

As he followed the line he now discovered that a 
convent garden adjoined his own. The roof of the 
main building and the bell- gable of the chapel could 
be seen as he stood, but on craning his neck he could 
also distinguish the narrow, close-barred windows of 
what was evidently a cloistered house. 

He had then, under his eyes, one of those living 
tombs to which unhappy women, often on the thresh- 
old of life, still consign themselves, one , of those 
hideous anomalies which had helped to drive him 
from Rome. 

The conviction saddened, dismayed, revolted. 
There, beneath that joyous heaven, in the heart of 
that sunny, idyllic landscape, stood the half prison, 
half mad-house, whose very existence is an outrage 
to reason and the name of religion. 

He felt, nevertheless, attracted to this little cham- 
ber in the roof ; set the village carpenter to work 
upon a window and bookshelves ; a chair, table and 
writing materials were brought up. Within a few 
days of arrival he took possession. 

The weather was indescribably beautiful. The 
wide landscape looked lovelier than ever as he 
smoothed out a sheet of paper, dipped his pen in 
ink, and began to write. 

Beside his desk lay an open volume of the greatest 
prose writer of contemporary France. He now 
copied out a sentence, appropriate text, as it 
seemed, for an essay on the intellectual development 
of the world. 


54 


THE BO MANGE OF 


“ In the great education of the human mind noth- 
ing is lost. The primer from which Goethe learned 
to read was no useless book.” 

“ And shall I ? ” mused the ex-priest, “ I, who 
have suffered and struggled in the cause of truth, 
shall I keep silent ? May I not also do my part ? ” 

A momentary exultation thrilled him. He pic- 
tured to himself a series of mental labours as stimu- 
latmg to the writer as they might be fruitful to the 
reader. 

Here, then, should he find his reward. Here 
should he be recompensed for what had occasionally 
seemed a useless martyrdom, a shipwrecked career, 
a piece of self-abnegation of no account. His pulses 
quickened, his cheeks glowed, the pen moved freely 
over the page, when a noise arrested his attention. 
Itwas the tinkling of the convent bell, the cold, pene- 
trating sound, more like the feeble echo of a death- 
knell, bidding to tears and gloom, than a cheerful 
call to thanksgiving and adoration. He dropped his 
pen, took an agitated turn, then reseated himself, 
covering his face with his hands. 

As he sat thus, the hated sound still audible, there 
arose before his inner gaze two scenes of a girlish 
life. Fresh and vivid were they as of yesterday, 
though both belonged to a buried past. 

The first was a radiant, sparkling, wildly joyous 
picture, one of those nineteenth century pastorals 
that recall the canvas of Watteau or the pages of 
Ariosto. 

It was an out-of-door fete on a sumptuous scale, 
given in one of those lovely old gardens stiU to b^ 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


55 


found within the precincts of Paris. Here a lady, 
well-known in the world of fashion and of letters, 
held her stately court. Under her auspices, aided 
by poets and artists, a dainty pageant had been 
arranged, an Arcadian scene in which the shepherds 
and shepherdesses not only recalled the masques of 
olden time, hut acted their poetic part. And of all 
the maidens there, one was the universally-acknow- 
ledged flower and star. All eyes followed the beauti- 
ful, spirited, inspiring girl none of her own sex could 
And it in their hearts to envy. The dazzling destiny 
to which she was horn — sole heiress to a splendid 
fortune, last of a noble name, had seemed rather to 
heighten the sweetness and ingenuousness of her 
nature than lend haughtiness or caprice. Unspoiled 
by flattery, she remained naive, affectionate and 
guileless as the nymph she so adorably pourtrayed. 
Then another scene rose before his eyes. 

It was a sunny April morning. He saw a well- 
dressed crowd, some afoot, others in handsome 
equipages, hastening towards a convent. The chapel 
doors were flung wide, the interior blazed with tapers, 
sacristan and acolyte were preparing the altar for a 
ceremony. As yet, however, the church itself was 
empty, one and all of the assembled visitors entered 
a large hall or vestibule connecting it with the con- 
vent. 

Here, behind a barred grating, a gloom- visaged, 
black-robed nun by her side, stood the sparkling, 
radiant shepherdness of the pastoral. Dressed in 
white satin, veiled with richest lace, a wreath of myr- 
tle blossoms in her bright hair, delicately-gloved ; but 


56 


THE ROMANCE OF 


for these sombre surroundings, the girl seemed ready 
for her bridal. 

Now, one by one, weeping parents, kinsfolk, 
friends, neighbours, and servants press forward to 
take a last adieu, the supreme valediction of the 
living and the dead. Another hour, that twenty- 
year-old maiden, a cloistered nun will be to all 
intents and purposes buried in the tomb. 

Few outside the grating could withhold their 
tears, as they approached by turns to clasp for the 
last time that slender hand, take a long, final look 
of the lovely, dearly -loved face. But, as it happens 
on a deathbed, the dying remain calm amid broken- 
hearted bystanders, so this girl showed no shrink- 
ing, no sorrow, as she took final leave of those who 
had cherished her from the cradle. 

A feverish brightness shone in her eyes, an un- 
real, almost ghastly gaiety animated her voice. She 
smiled, even laughed away the misgivings expressed 
openly, for as yet all could speak the thought 
uppermost in their minds. Even the bent, sobbing 
figure of her old Alsatian nurse could not shake the 
victim’s self-possession. 

And all the while, rigid as stone, repellent as the 
reality of which she was the incarnation, there stood 
the dark-visaged, hard-browed superior, henceforth 
gaoler, keeper, inquisitor of one captive more. 

The adieu comes to an end. The two contrasted 
figures — the one fair as an angel, the other grim and 
forbidding as Atropos of Greek fable — disappeared 
from behind the grating. The red-eyed crowd 
poured into the chapel. The death-knell sounded 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 57 

and the last scene of the horrible drama was accom- 
plished. 

Standing on tip-toe, the more curious spectators 
could now see the passive figure of the novice 
stretched on a bier, her hair shorn close, her limbs 
wrapt in coarse cere-clothes, whilst the death-knell, 
still sounding, priests and acolytes mumbled over 
her the lugubrious service for the dead. 

Half-an-hour later, all was ended. Parents and 
friends went home, consoling themselves as best 
they could. Their darling was consigned to the 
grave. Alas ! not the grave in which memory sleeps 
and love and sorrow are as if they had never been, 
the world forgot ! “ Oh ! Bertrande, my Ber- 

trande,” murmured the pastor, “ forgive ! forgive ! ” 


58 


THE BOMANCE OF 


CHAPTER VII. 

MOONLIGHT REVELS. 

Sweet and engaging as was the landscape of St. 
Gilles in sunshine, it yet showed more seductiveness 
under a brilliant moon. The sea gleamed as a silver 
shield, the pine- woods were clear cut against the 
deep heavens, every object was sharply defined. 
The travelled stranger might almost fancy himself 
in the East, so intense the effulgence, so nearly re- 
sembling light every shadow. More splendid even 
than the sun is this moon of the Gironde, accord- 
ing all things a gem -like lustre and distinctness. 

The cool brown sands, firm and smooth as a car- 
peted floor, made a charming croquet-lawn by day 
and ball-room at night. After the cloudless, burn- 
ing glory of the afternoon came a deliciously fresh 
and balmy hour, the wild evening primroses by the 
shore breathed fragrance, the softness and mellow- 
ness of the air permitted all kinds of indiscretions. 
Young girls might discard their straw hats in this 
favoured little land, elderly chaperons watch the 
dance without dreading a chill. Till the end of sum- 
mer and the flight of the last straggler the bay 
would resound with music and dancing. 

At the height of the season, when a hundred or 
more visitors found accommodation in the chMets, 
the village band was nightly called into requisition j 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


59 


young and old gathered to look on, waltz and country 
dance were the order of the day. As the numbers 
dwindled down and one little circle broke up after 
another, waltz and mazurka became popular, and a 
solitary violin sufficed for all. 

September was now advanced, and although the 
weather remained unbroken, most of the chalets 
were closed, and the bathing season was virtually 
at an end. To-night only one little group of dancers 
animated the shore, that a right merry one. Far 
away could he heard their light-hearted talk and 
careless laughter. The very genius of frolic seemed . 
to preside over the scene. “ Come, Monsieur Jeunet, 
this will never do,” cried a vivacious, musical, 
slightly imperious woman’s voice. “ If Marthe 
can make nothing of her pupil, I must really try 
my hand.” 

“ Do, dear little aunt,” answered a young girl in 
somewhat bored, matter-of fact tone. “Monsieur 
Jeunet doesn’t mind in the least what I say.” 

“Mademoiselle Marthe is far too amiable — too 
fearful of giving offence. I need severer discipline,” 
replied the cavalier. “Madame Delinon could, I 
am sure, make a finished waltzer of me in a single 
lesson.” 

Thus appealed to, the elder lady threw off her 
little velvet tippet, and held out a daintily gloved 
hand to the speaker. She was no longer what is 
called young, this charming chatelaine. She had 
reached the age when the other sex are considered 
in their prime. But if old enough to he the mother 
of the eighteen-year-old demoiselle beside her^ she 


60 


THE ROMANCE OF 


was far more attractive and far more youthful in 
spirit than most French beauties just out of the 
schoolroom. 

Although not precisely slender, she was with- 
out that roundness of proportion all Frenchwomen 
naturally dread and none take measures to guard 
against. She could still dance, play croquet, moun- 
taineer, with the zest of her English sisters. Were 
it otherwise, were shp more matronly in appearance, 
were more than one or two silver hairs mingled with 
the brown, she possessed such freshness, sweetness 
and spontaneity in look, voice and gesture, that 
every one would find her young. 

It was wonderful how much assiduity the pupil 
now put into his lesson. At first it was an uphill 
concern, every step proving a mistake. The mis- 
tress harangued, the learner made excuse, the rustic 
fiddler had to halt again and again. Things took a 
decided turn for the better. The waltz now became 
a waltz indeed. The musician had to play faster 
and faster, and Marthe clapped her hands, whilst the 
pair whirled round and round as if nothing on earth 
could stop them. 

“ Please pause now. I entreat you to leave off. 
Monsieur Jeunet, I command you to desist,” cried 
the lady, panting for breath. 

But the enraptured votary paid no heed. Swifter 
and swifter grew his paces, wilder and wilder his 
gyrations, till at last, unable to stop himself, he was 
fortunately stopped by an unexpected intruder. The 
pair came into sudden contact with a hitherto unob- 
served bystander. 


A FRENCB PARSONAGE. 


61 


“ Evelard, as I live! ” ejaculated Jeunet. 

“Monsieur Evelard!” cried the lady, drawing 
back aghast. 

“ Monsieur Evelard ! ” echoed Marthe. 

The girl had heard something of his history, and 
wanted to know what an abbe turned pastor looked 
like. 

Madame Delinon did not blush — French women 
never do. She dropped her eyelids, smiled like a 
shame-faced child, and said, with an aggrieved and 
deeply penitential air, — 

“ You have a knack at discovering delinquents. If 
I were bent upon murder, you would be sure to sur- 
prise me in the act.” 

“ It is as well to be afraid of somebody,” replied 
the pastor drily. 

“ Monsieur Jeunet really wants to learn dancing. 
It may be useful to him in so many ways, and you 
must know everyone dances here. You might do it 
yourself without creating a scandal.” 

« Why these apologies ? As if I should not rejoice 
to see you happy ! And were it otherwise,” he added 
in a low tone, Marthe and Jeunet at that moment 
teasing each other, « I have never been your second 
conscience.” 

“ Not avowedly. A— a— half Protestant— if any- 
thing at all, I could not seek a confessor. But it 
would break my heart to have you think ill of me,” 
she answered quickly. 

“ Nay,’^ was the reply, half-playful, half-reproach- 
ful. “Hearts are not so lightly broken, and surely 
our friends are seldom those we think ill of.” 


62 


THE BOMANCE OF 


The words failed to reassure her. 

« You look upon me as a worldling, a trifler, little 
better than a child,” she said, on the verge of petu- 
lant tears. “The fates are ever against me. When 
I try to do a kindness I am sure to make myself 
despicable or ridiculous. I will explain to you why 
your friend wishes to learn dancing. Monsieur 
Jeunet,” she exclaimed, raising her voice, “ we will 
go home now. Please give Marthe your arm. We 
follow. A thousand thanks, my good Pierre,” and 
a silver piece was thrust into the musician’s hands. 

Then the little party moved off. 

“ That poor Monsieur Jeunet ! To what shifts is 
he put for a livelihood ! Would you believe it — but 
we will discuss his affairs another time. Let us talk 
of yourself; you called me your friend just now. 
Was it friendly thus to hide yourself from me L>r 
two long years ? ” 

“ Pardon, pardon. It could not be otherwise. Yon 
now know the reason.” 

“ That does not console me. How happy I should 
have been to sympathise with you, comfort you ! 
We used to see so much of each other in the old 
days. I little thought the time was near when you 
would shun me altogether. But it is past and gone,” 
she added in a wholly changed, almost a jubilant 
tone. “We are near neighbours, you will let me 
help you in your parish. You will come to my house 
for a little relaxation, a little gaiety.” 

“Ever kind-heartedness itself,” exclaimed the 
pastor, his words of approval nevertheless seeming to 
discommend. “But, remember, that there is avast 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


63 


difference between Jennet’s case and my own. I am 
still a minister of religion. My calling exacts a 
certain sobriety, a certain reserve. Least of all in 
a place like this could the Protestant pastor belong 
to fashion and the world.” 

It was well for Georgette’s womanly pride that 
her companion could not see the effect of his words. 
Every sentence wounded, humiliated, made her 
heart sink. 

But they had now quitted the open shore, lumi- 
nous as by day, and entered the forest road, pass- 
ing ever and anon into deep shadow. The tears 
glistening on her veil, the trembling of her sweet 
mouth, the cloud of pain, were all hidden. 

“ Come and see me when you like,” she said, with 
an air of affected gaiety ; “ a cover will always be 
laid for you, and you shall have due warning of 
entertainments. Do not make a hermit of your- 
self. Do not force me into believing that my 
presence here is unwelcome.” 

“What words are these! As if I should not 
rejoice to call you my neighbour ! ” 

“Do you really, really?” she asked, turning 
suddenly round, trying to read his looks, her own 
face lighted up with almost a wild glow of triumph. 

“ Of course,” he replied. “ I hold myself fortu- 
nate that chance directed your footsteps hither. 
Why you should have selected so out-of-the-way a 
spot for your villegiatura puzzles me not a little I 
confess.” 

With that remark, spoken carelessly, perhaps 
absently, the radiance faded from his listener’s face. 


64 


THE BOMANGE OF 


She made no attempt at an explanation. They 
walked on in silence. 

“Will you not come in?” she asked coldly, as 
they reached the lodge gate. 

“ Thank you, no ; the hour is already late.” 

“We shall see you perhaps to-morrow, to break- 
fast or dinner ? ” 

He thanked her warmly, without directly accept- 
ing or refusing, bade adieu to the others and hast- 
ened away. A little tray of sandwiches, cut Eng- 
lish fashion, and the sweet wine of the district 
awaited the dancers, but Georgette was now in no 
humour for the merry little supper that to her 
guests often seemed the best part of the day. 

Marthe was hurried to bed. Monsieur Jeunet to 
the smoking-room, and a few minutes later she was 
in her own, weeping bitterly. 

Here, then, was the end of her wildly joyous hopes 
and sweet illusions ! This man she adored had 
never loved her ! The solemn step so deliberately 
taken, the renunciation of his priestly vows, had 
nothing to do with his feeling for herself. She had 
but been blind all these years, mistaking liking and 
sympathy for love, admiration and friendship for 
passion. He wondered why she was there ! 

He attributed her coming to chance ! When the 
force of her grief was spent, she moved to the 
window and drew back the curtain. 

Yesterday this scene had worn the look of fairy- 
land. Here she surveyed her own little bay, the 
gentle curve of shore hemmed round by forest trees, 
with intervening English lawn and garden. In the 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 65 

wondrous brilliance of the moon every feature of 
the landscape stood out bright and clear as the 
jewels of a mosaic, tiny crescent of silvery sea ; 
serried pines, beds of white and rose-coloured 
zinnias, marble iountain, broad carriage drive— the 
picture was perfect of its kind ; nothing could be 
added, nothing taken away ; but from the owner’s 
eyes all enchantment had vanished. This delicious 
domain, with its unique surroundings, its velvety 
swards meeting a fairy shore, hanging woods, 
spacious gardens, almost wore the look of a prison. 
But the despairing mood did not last long. Georg- 
ette Delinon owned that, fortunately for herself, she 
was a woman of the world. If unlearned in books 
and in the history of thought, she was versed 
beyond most women in knowledge of life and the 
human heart. She knew that sentiment does not 
as a rule guide and direct mortal affairs. More 
practical, and, in a certain sense, weightier motives, 
fortunately perhaps for us all, govern the actions of 
most men and women. So she said to herself that 
she would take courage. E velar d was now her 
near neighbour. 

They should see each other often. Who could, 
tell? He might wake up one morning with the 
conviction that he had loved her all his life ? But 
she must be wary, she must be on her guard not to 
shock or displease him. She must henceforth live 
up to a new standard — his standard. 

5 


66 


TBE BOMAlsrCE OE 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ASPIRATIONS. 

The Lady Bountiful so familiar to English folks 
has no place in a French village. Our amiable 
pauperisers in petticoats, dispensing left-off clothes, 
beef tea and doses of quinine or port wine, would 
find their calling a failure at St. Gilles. These 
homely, hard-working Huguenots had ample store 
of stout homespun, simples and cordials. They 
wanted no fine ladies crossing their threshold unan- 
nounced, agog for curtseys and subservient out- 
pourings. Every man sat under his own vine and 
fig-tree and owned the roof that sheltered him. 
Laborious and frugal as was the general lot, it was 
one of content and independence. The new chate- 
laine felt that she must seek a sphere outside philan- 
thropy. Charity, in other words almsgiving, had 
here no work to do. She might organise a lending 
library, make the acquaintance of her neighbours by 
means of social entertainments, and gradually be- 
come one of 'them. These things were matter of 
time. 

Meanwhile, how could she associate herself with 
the new pastor and co-operate in his parochial work ? 
She wanted to be useful to him and become his right 
hand. 


A t'RmCB PARSONAGE. 


67 


Georgette was one of those adorable French 
women — their name is legion — who do not know what 
it is to need a religion. Her life had been one long, 
unbroken series of kindnesses and benefactions. She 
had lavished her time, her money, her good offices, 
on the friendless, the unfortunate, and, not seldom, 
the undeserving. A woman of the world, she ever 
remamed, in the best sense of the term, unworldly. 
True, she would perhaps spend an entire forenoon in 
matching a button, would devote hours to books not 
worth the paper on which they were printed, and to 
people, in homely phrase, not worth their salt. Her 
heart and purse were alike at the service of needy 
saints and sinners. 

After taking counsel with Jeunet, she decided 
upon assisting in the Sunday-school. 

Here, surely, was an opening for her energies and 
aspirations I At St. Gilles, as in other Protestant 
communities, it was customary for the pastor’s wife 
or daughter to catechise the little girls before service, 
himself taking the boys in hand. One difficulty, that 
a paramount one, presented itself She had never 
seen a Protestant catechism in her life, and as to 
a Scripture lesson, she felt that the exposition of 
Descartes’ philosophy could hardly puzzle her more. 

Monsieur Jeunet, ever ready at expedients, devised 
a scheme. Only two leagues off, he said, there lived 
exactly the teacher she stood in need of ; an Evangel- 
ist or Scripture Reader, quite lately consecrated as 
pastor, and now her neighbour. 

“ A most worthy man, Evelard says, only very 
conceited. But, good Heavens, why the world rails 


THE ROMANCE OP 


68 

at self-conceit I have never been able to understand ! 
A good opinion of oneself is often the only fortune 
a man comes into. And what a fortune! The 
Rothschilds’ billions are nothing to it.” 

“ We will call on the pastor this very afternoon. 
I do not wish to lose a single moment. Will it take 
very long to learn the catechism, think you?” 

“ Catholics spend years and years upon it, hut I 
fancy Luther simplified matters a good deal. Pastor 
Bourgeois will enlighten you.” 

“ Can you drive ? ” asked the hostess. 

“ I will try.” 

« Which means that you know nothing about the 
matter,” Georgette cried, laughing gaily. “Well, 
the carriage is so heavy nothing short of an earth- 
quake could turn it over, and the horse is steadiest 
of the steady, so we will set out.” 

Madame Delinon was what is called rich in rural 
France, but she did not possess one of those colossal 
fortunes that figure in French novels. She enjoyed 
an income of just a thousand a year, enabling her to 
occupy a pretty flat in Paris and travel or hire a 
country house during the autumn. Handsome 
equipages and English grooms were altogether be- 
yond her means. When purchasing this fairy-like 
property at an extraordinarily low price, she had 
taken, in addition to furniture and fixtures, an old- 
fashioned hooded carriage, and horse to match, the 
very turn-out for forest roads and cart-tracks. 

If it affords exquisite delight to show off one’s 
skill in accomplishments we have made our own, 
still more stimulating is the call upon hitherto un- 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


69 


tried powers. Nothing could equal Monsieur Jeunet’s 
satisfaction as he now handled the reins for the first 
time. Two circumstances were in his favour. They 
were pretty sure to have the road to themselves ; 
and so admirably are these vehicles of the Ancien 
Regime adapted to the requirements of the country, 
that to overturn them would need more ingenuity 
than to extricate them from a rut no matter how 
deep. 

The little party set off in the highest spirits, Mon- 
sieur Jeunet on the driver’s box. Georgette, Marthe, 
and a little maid behind. 

Their route lay inland, and although they only 
here and there caught the glint of the sea, every inch 
was romantic and beautiful ; on the one hand rose 
stately pines and venerable ilexes; on the other 
stretched park-like glades, lovely little dells and 
coppice woods. Now they were lost in a bit of 
ancient forest, lofty trees shutting out the blue ; 
now they traversed velvety pastures, through which 
trended crystal streams. Every variety of foliage 
was here — aspen, ilex, oak, chestnut, beech, acacia, but 
the two first bore the palm. To realise the beauty 
of these trees the traveller must visit St. Gilles. We 
come upon what look like silvery clouds lighting up 
the dark forest. It is the aspen mingling its pale 
yet resplendent tints with those of the sombre ilex, 
that majestic tree, here also seen at its best ; and, 
by force of double contrast, the ilex rigidity itself, 
the aspen ever murmuring, ever rippling. 

If, indeed, the silvery wave of the one is lovely 
against the deep blue sky, as striking and beautiful 


70 


THE BOMANCE OF 


the dark foliage of the ilex by its side, summer and 
winter, perpetually hand-in-hand. 

The enjoyment of the ladies was taken jerkily. 

“ How pretty ! What a sweet spot ! Oh, the 
lovely view ! ” Madame Delinon would cry again and 
again, her young companion echoing the apostrophe. 
No sooner did they rise to gaze and admire at their 
ease, than, sure enough, Jeunet plumped down into 
a rut, or made for a stone heap, recklessly and jaunt- 
ily as if he were taking part in a steeplechase. The 
hooded carriage presented from behind the appear- 
ance of a sailing-boat on a squally sea ; first it swayed 
to the right, next to the left, then it lurched forward, 
becoming almost invisible. But the more the ex- 
pedition savoured of adventure, the heartier grew 
the relish of all. The ladies screamed, laughed and 
rubbed their aching bones, their driver turning round 
to receive, with triumphant smile, alike reproach and 
congratulation. 

After a while they rejoined the high road, and 
bowled smoothly across a fair open country, gay 
with autumn crops. Then they came once more in 
sight of the sea, and at the same time of their des- 
tination — a straggling village perched above lofty 
tufa rocks, warm in hue as masses of yellow ochre 
against the blue Atlantic. 

These sea-board villages have each their little Cath- 
olic and Protestant churches, often placed in friend- 
liest juxtaposition. Here, however, the two build- 
ings stood wide apart ; the one at the head, the other 
at the extreme end of a hot, dusty, monotonous street. 

Pastor Bourgeois’ modest dwelling and tiny church 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 


71 


were significantly built on the edge of the cliffs, 
above the caves in which his predecessors had hidden 
themselves. The waves had ofttimes imperilled their 
lives, but the dragoons of a servile king, m the hands 
of his fanatical pride, threatened doom far more 
cruel. 

“ The pastor is not in ; you will find him some- 
where by the shore. There is a nice little path cut 
in the rock,” said the black-hooded woman- servant. 

“To the right or to the left, my good woman?” 
asked Jeunet blandly. 

“ The Lord knows ! I have never noticed myself.” 

“ And you feel sure we shall find Monsieur Bour- 
geois below, do you ? ” 

“ If he isn’t there, he is nowhere, that I can answer 
for.” 

“ Good Heavens ! My dear madame, do folks dis- 
appear so mysteriously in these regions ; under our 
very nose one moment, swallowed up by quicksands 
the next ? ” 

“Not that I know of ; but, as I say, the pastor is 
thereabouts.. You will find him near the caves.” 

“ Are the caves close by, a few hundred yards, a 
quarter, or half-a-mile ? ” 

“ About that. Not a great way ; a bit of a way. 
I can’t say how far,” was the vague answer. 

Then they set out in the direction indicated. 

“ I was wrong to expect definitions,” he said, laugh- 
ing. “ Our peasants, you must have noticed, never 
define. A mile to them may mean something over 
or something under an hour, from forty minutes to 
twice or three times that number. Westward is not 


72 


THE BOMANGE OF 


precisely in the direction of the rising sun, that is all. 
Well, if we don’t find our pastor, we shall have an 
enchanting walk.” 

He gave Georgette his hand, Marthe followed with 
Mariette the maid, and the four zig-zagged down to 
the shore. 

Here, too, the expedition savoured of the hazardous. 
The good woman’s nice little path was a dizzy affair, 
being merely a footway roughly hewn in the almost 
vertical sides of the cliff. A dozen incidents hap- 
pened ere they were safely landed below. Georg- 
ette’s green gauze veil blew off, and, leaving her per- 
ilously placed as Andromeda, Jeunet insisted upon 
recovering it, risking his neck in the feat. 

Then Marthe turned giddy, and there was a vain 
fumbling for scent-bottles. Jeunet thereupon averred 
that the best possible ‘restorative was the fumes 
of a cigarette. Accordinglyj the party halted, whilst 
Marthe, with closed eyes, was smoked as assiduously 
as a caterpillar on a rose-tree. A stage lower down, 
Mariette the maid must next declare with a scream 
that she had spi-ained an ankle, if not broken a leg, 
and that she could not move an inch farther. Once 
more Jeunet proved equal to the occasion. A lovely, 
bluish-green lizard shot by. He affected fear, cry- 
ing that they should be poisoned by venomous rep- 
tiles if they stayed a moment longer. Whereupon 
Mariette forgot her sprain, and they gained the shore 
with all possible dispatch. 

Laughing, frolicking as children accorded an extra 
holiday, they now disported themselves, making the 
quiet bay resound with mirth. Georgette was not 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 


73 


too much a woman of the world to enjoy natural 
beauty. The musical plash of the wave, the crocus- 
coloured cliffs, the flowers, fllled her with unaffected 
rapture. She gathered bunches of sea-lavender, 
bade her cavalier cut sprays of sea-holly and horned 
poppy, delighting childlike in her treasure. 

Meantime Marthe and Mariette ran hither and 
thither. Ailing their baskets with young oysters. 
Nature, thriftiest matron, combining the useful with 
the lovely, has made of these romantic shores an 
oyster bed. Here you may see, sticking to the 
rocks, the oysterling not larger than a threepenny 
piece, and the full-grown dainty as served in the 
famous restaurants of Bordeaux. And, as is the 
case with game, poaching is winked at by the au- 
thorities. At St. Gilles, law and order were repre- 
sented by the Garde Champetre, whose chief busi- 
ness was that of town-crier, announcing sales by 
auction and other local events. 

The pair, giggling as French girls are apt to do in 
the midst of scenery almost sublime, had disappeared 
for some minutes in one of the grottoes. On a sud- 
den they emerged as if flying for their lives. 

“ A wild man ! ” cried Marthe. 

« A hermit ! ” exclaimed Mariette. 

“ A smuggler, a ghost ! ” screamed both. “ There 
he comes.” 


74 


THE ROMANCE OF 


CHAPTER IX. 

EXCHANGE NO EOBBERY ; AND A FRENCH GIEL’s 
ROMANCE. 

Before their elders could advance a step there 
issued from the grotto the strangest figure imag- 
inable. 

It was only Pastor Bourgeois ; hut, like Bottom, 
wondrously translated. The excellent man was in 
the habit of writing sermons and gathering oysters 
amid these solitudes, thus combining devotion and 
domestic economy. For the more practical operation 
some disregard to appearance was necessary. He 
had taken off his stockings, rolling back his trews 
above the knee ; he had also discarded black frock- 
coat and white cravat, enveloping himself, for fear 
of a chill, in an old well-worn plaid,, and looking 
uncouth enough. 

If the little company was dumfounded with shy- 
ness and dismay, not so Pastor Bourgeois. He 
seemed rather pleased than otherwise at being sur- 
prised in such a deshabille, stepped forth jauntily, 
by no means afraid of displaying his shapely 
legs, drew his plaid more picturesquely about his 
shoulders, and mtroduced himself with the ease of a 
viceroy. 

“ I am the Reverend Barthelemy Bourgeois, pastor 
‘of the village,” he said proudly, adding with a 


A FBENCR PABSONAGE. 


75 


rather admiring glance at Marthe ; “ these young 
ladies have something to answer for, and no mistake. 
They disturbed me as I was composing my Sunday 
sermon. Ah ! the ladies, the ladies. Ever, every one 
of you, bent from morning till night on mischief.” 

“We are all guilty ” Georgette began with her 

sweet smile, the smile for everybody, the smile of 
every day, but none the less ingratiating. “ Let me 
introduce myself, your neighbour, as I may be 
called, the new occupier of the chateau of St. Gilles.” 

“ Madame Delinon, the very person I have been 
dying to know ! ” cried Monsieur Bourgeois quite 
overcome. “ But allow me two or three minutes in 
yonder cave, and I re-appear in condition to receive 
you. We may permit ourselves little sacrifices to 
comfort and appearance, but the proprieties before 
all things ! ” 

A few minutes later, and the pastor, now attired 
in the habiliments befitting his position, sauntered 
along the shore, Madame Delinon leaning on his 
arm. It was with a feeling of exquisite delight that 
he listened to her request. The task of converting the 
people himself could hardly have afforded livelier sat- 
isfaction . Who could tell ? Might not those lessons 
on the Catechism afford openings for a little pastoral 
advice, even spiritual exhortation later on ? Madame 
Delinon was a Parisian, — in other words, a brand to 
be plucked from the burning. In the meantime he 
would keep his eyes open, but prove circumspection 
itself. He was no scholar. The famous aphorism 
of Tacitus— not in all men are the same things 
seemly— had never fallen under his notice, He 


76 


THE ROMANCE OF 


nevertheless felt that even in gravest matters, a 
chatelaine is not to be dealt with as a fishwife. A 
theologian is, of course, bound to appraise one soul 
like another, but it makes all the difference in the 
world whether their possessors be clad in fustian 
or brocade. The little busmess was settled after 
pleasantest fashion. 

Pastor Bourgeois was to give his first lesson next 
day, staying to breakfast, and Georgette was wonder- 
ing in what guise she could substantially thank him, 
when the little difficulty was anticipated by him- 
self. 

“ And now,” he said, “ I have a favour to ask of 
you. ‘ Exchange no robbery,’ says the proverb. 
‘ One good turn deserves another.’ You want to 
master the Catechism, I want a. wife. To find me a 
suitable partner would, I am sure, be an easy 
enough task to you.” 

Pastor Bourgeois could hardly have put his re- 
quest after more matter-of-fact fashion, were he 
casting about for a second-hand pony-carriage, or 
bargain in the shape of a sewing-machine. 

Georgette, being a Frenchwoman, was accustomed 
to such transactions, and promised to do her best. 
The pastor set forth in glowing terms his prospects 
and circumstances, stated his requirements in the 
matter of dowry, praised himself as far as was 
permissible, finally wound up with placing his 
future entirely in her hands. 

“ Enough. I have seen, I know you,” he said. 
“ Choose me a fireside companion, and, like the 
Moorish brides of Algeria, I will go to the altar 


A Pbench parsonage. 77 

blindfolded. Your unfettered choice, I am sure, 
will make me the happiest man alive.” 

His listener did not so much as smile at this out- 
pouring. Truth to tell, she had heard the same 
kind of thing too often. Madame Delinon was no 
more of a matchmaker than any other Frenchwoman 
occupying the same social position. She had been in- 
strumental in bringing about many a marriage, now 
being consulted by the friends of would-be bride- 
groom, now of maiden, impatiently awaiting bridals. 

The young pastor’s request came as a matter of 
course. Promising to attend to the business at once, 
also to apply herself assiduously to the Catechism, 
she joined her companions, and soon after the little 
party drove home. 

That same evening the topic of matrimony was 
mooted afresh. Jeunet had gone on a visit to Eve- 
lard ; his friend, he said, was moping himself to death. 
Aunt and niece were left alone. Georgette yawn- 
ing over a new novel, Marthe plying her needle. 

For some time the young lady had seemed lost in 
thought, when she suddenly looked up, and finding 
her companion gazing out of the window, put the 
abrupt question, — 

“ How soon do you intend to marry me, dear 
aunt ? ” 

Georgette closed the book on her knees, evidently 
ready for a confabulation. 

“ My dear child,” she said, laughing gaily, I 
assure you the question has never entered my head. 
Why, how old are you ? ” 

« Nineteen next birthday,” was the somewhat 


TBE ROMANCE OF 


78 

pensive reply. Marthe seemed to fear that she had 
already lost time. 

“ Really? As old as that? We will think about 
it, then. Let me see.” 

Then as if light had broken upon her all at once, 
she went on, — 

“I suppose you do not mind much where you 
live ? ” 

“ Of what use to mind, aunt ? A girl with only a 
dowry of thirty thousand francs cannot pick and 
choose. I have often heard you say that.” 

* “ True, quite true. Now, Marthe, I have thought 
of some one. As yet you know next to nothing of 
the world, but I have tried to open your eyes a lit- 
tle from time to time. A girl who consults her own 
happiness will never seek outward attractions in a 
husband, good looks, charming manners, winning 
speech and so on ; such things are mere snares and 
pitfalls. Marry a man who is courted by society, 
universally admired, a drawing-room favourite, and 
you might as well suffocate yourself with charcoal 
fumes at once ! You could not count upon his 
fidelity for six months.” 

“ I should like to marry a cavalry officer, I adore 
the uniform,” put in Marthe. 

“ You could, of course, do that ; your dowry per- 
mits it. But listen to me, Marthe. An officer’s wife 
has to rough it much more than you are aware of. 
You would be sure to go to Algeria, all young 
officers are sent there, and with your dowry you 
could only aspire to a lieutenant. How would you 
like to find yourself in some remote spot with Ka- 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


79 


byles to wait upon you, and robbers and assassins on 
the lookout to plunder and murder the moment your 
husband’s back was turned ? No, my dear child, I 
have in my mind, ready to hand, a husband who 
would not separate you from me, and who would, I 
am sure of it, never give you so much as a single 
moment’s uneasiness.” 

“ Who is he ? ” asked Marthe almost contemptu- 
ously. She had read novels, and her aunt’s eulogium 
failed to awaken enthusiastic feeling. 

“ Can you ask the question ? Recall our delight- 
ful adventure of yesterday, that agreeable young 
pastor, that comfortable little parsonage-house. 
Where else could you look for such guarantees of 
peace and happiness ? ” 

Marthe neither welcomed nor deprecated the pro- 
ject. She was evidently weighing, deliberating. 

“ He would sermonise me,” she said at last ; “ I 
should not like to be preached at.” 

« What a child you are ! As if doctors ever phys- 
icked their own wives! No, Marthe, find me a 
stronger objection.” 

“ Would he have to stay here always ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, no. He may be promoted to the pas- 
torate of a large city any day, to Montpellier, Nimes, 
Bordeaux, where the best society is all Protestant ; 
you would be as gay as in Paris.” 

Again the young lady pondered. 

“Well, dear aunt,” she said, after a time, “you 
arrange matters to please yourself. The great point 
seems to me, not to marry this, that, or the other, 
but to marry somebody.” 


80 


THE ROMANCE OF 


“ Exactly. There you speak like a sensible girl. 
So, without acting precipitately, I will encourage 
the pastor’s visits and give you both opportunities 
of knowing each other.” 

Marthe thanked her aunt and again plied her 
needle, this time with greater alacrity. The pros- 
pect of a trousseau, of matronly rank, of an interior 
to govern, awakened agreeable speculation. French 
girls as a rule are the least romantic beings in crea- 
tion. Marthe’s reverie was very matter of fact. 
The husband chosen for her was not necessarily a 
girlish ideal, but the satisfaction of worldly aspira- 
tions is surely something to be thankfnl for. 

Thrice happy Marthe ! Thrice happy Marthes ! 
for their name is legion in France. The thought of 
her own possible shortcomings need never trouble 
her. If fairy godmother had withheld the gift of 
beauty, wit, and sparkling grace, that was no sub- 
ject for melancholy recrimination either. She pos- 
sessed a marriage portion, and thus dowered, as she 
knew right well, any girl could marry to-morrow 
if she chose i 


4 FBENCH PAItSONAGE, 


81 


CHAPTER X 

THE ORDEAL. 

Perhaps Georgette had never put more heart and 
soul into any task than that of preparing her Sim- 
day’s lesson. She learned every word, both of 
question and answer, by rote; repeated each, if once, 
at least twenty times to the ever -ready, ever- handy 
Jeunet; took counsel with her teacher as to possible 
emergencies, imlooked-for remarks, puzzling queries 
on the part of little scholars, probably better versed 
in Scripture and the Catechism than herself ; finally, 
set out for church in a state of mind bordering on 
exhilaration. She owned half shyly that her rapture 
was not wholly of a personal nature. It was not mere- 
ly the pleasure of being associated with Evelard in his 
daily avocations, gradually becoming, as she hoped, 
his fellow- worker and helper, that now made her 
heart beat and her cheeks glow. Delightful as were 
these convictions, another thought awakened deeper 
emotion. Affectionateness itself, generous, single- 
minded, the petted, beautiful woman of the World 
had reached middle life without having experienced a 
thrill of real reverence. Catholic by birth and bring- 
ing up, she had long ago drifted into indifference and 
scepticism. Not even Evelard’s eloquence could 
ever bring her to the confessional, the weekly fast 
and other obligations of the Church. Whilst vicar 
6 


THE nOMANCE OF 


B2 

of one of the largest metropolitan churches, the 
now obscure pastor of St. Gilles, had staggered, 
electrified, brilliant Parisian congregations. The 
priest had never reached her soul, although her 
heart had long been his own. 

But the stupendous nature of his sacrifice, the 
pathos of his present position, touched her now. 
She felt that there must be something in Truth, the 
Truth — as he believed — embodied in Protestantism, 
to have brought about such an act. The spectacle 
of his daily life and surroundings aroused a feeling 
widely apart from mere compassion. She almost 
felt that she could worship him, whilst the thought 
of raising herself, no matter how laboriously, to his 
level, became a kind of religion. 

The Catechism classes were held after service, the 
pastor taking the little boys in the vestry, his new 
teacher retiring with the little girls to the school- 
room. Georgette smilingly surveyed her pupils, 
asked the name of each, put them, as she thought, 
at their ease by a friendly word or two. Then the 
lesson began. 

It was now noon, and the hottest days of closing 
summer were not yet over. In spite of open doors 
and partly closed shutters, the heat was oppressive. 
A bumble-bee and a wasp, as is their wont, would 
intrude from time to time, creating perhaps to the 
children no unwelcome diversion. But could midday 
sultriness, bumble-bees and even wasps account for 
such woodenness and stupidity ? 

What could be the matter with the children ? 
thought poor Georgette, as she repeated question 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 


83 


after question, getting from one a monosyllabic 
reply wholly irrelevant to the matter in hand ; from 
another a blunt “ Don’t know ! ” from most a fixed 
stare. 

The puzzling part of the business was that these 
little girls had one and all intelligent faces : she 
could not set down their silence and impassibility to 
brainlessness, much less idiocy. Neater, nicer- 
looking peasant children you could hardly find, but 
now, as it seemed, stricken with sudden incapacity. 

“ Come,’^ Georgette said, glancing at the little en- 
amel watch having her monogram in brillants, “ this 
will never do. We will leave the Catechism till 
next time and read our portion of Scripture. Let 
Barbette begin.” 

But Barbette, although eleven years old and re- 
puted the best scholar of the class, showed the most 
astonishing inaptitude and mulishness. She stam- 
mered, hesitated, came to a standstill in the middle 
of a verse. 

The mistress, looking up reproachfully, encountered 
a pair of bright black eyes fixed upon herself. The 
Scripture lesson threatened to prove as complete a 
failure as the Catechism. 

“ Barbette, I am disappointed in you. You are the 
eldest here, you ought to set an example of diligence 
and attention. Now, Pauline, see if you cannot do 
better.” 

Pauline was Barbette’s sister, and had the same 
bright look and dark eyes.* She nevertheless showed 
herself equally intractable. There she stood gazing 
at the new Sunday-school teacher as if brought sud- 


84 the nOMANCE OF 

denly face to face with some startling phenomenon. 

Poor Georgette began to lose heart and patience. 
What account could she render of her stewardship ? 
How could she hope to retain her post if such were 
the result? 

“You are all vexing me very much,” she said; 
“ our time is nearly up and we have really done noth- 
ing. The pastor will be grieved, I am sure, and he 
will not let me go on teaching you. He will appoint 
some one else ” 

Just then a well-known voice called her name. 
Looking up, she saw Evelard, who had stolen in un- 
observed a few minutes before, and, standmg apart, 
watched the little scene. 

“ The children may go now,” he said with an odd 
smile. “ Away with all of you, and very different 
conduct next Sunday, remember, when I shall take 
you in hand myself ! ” 

Scuttling away like young rabbits, the little schol- 
ars disappeared in a moment, leaving the pair alone. 

He went straight up to her, and for a moment his 
changed position was forgotten. She seemed to hear 
once more the satiric priest, the masterful man of 
the world, whose scathing criticisms had even been 
dear. In the old familiar way he now smiled as 
upon some petted, irresponsible child, and pointed 
to the brooch fastening her lace ruffle. 

“ Adorable blunderer ! ” he cried, “ must you bring 
all the vanities of Paris in your train ? Could you 
not discard your diamonds for a single day ? ” 

“My bird of paradise? Was it the brooch that 
made the children stare at me and forget their les- 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


85 


sons ? ” she said, overcome with feelings of mixed 
shame and pleasure. His raillery gratified more than 
his rebuke wounded. 

She unfastened the ornament with a penitential 
look. It was a charming piece of jewellery, the kind 
of trinket that ever attracts a little knot of idlers 
on the Boulevards — diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, 
topazes, and brilliants, nicely imitating a tiny bird 
of paradise. 

“ How could I be so foolish ? ” she added. “ But 
the brooch shall be consigned to my jewel case. I 
will never wear it here any more.” 

“ And these — and these ? ” 

As he spoke he pointed to the brilliants glittering 
on her fingers and little ears. Then he said in a 
wholly altered tone, — 

“ No, dear friend, I was jesting. Retain your in- 
nocent vanities. They harm neither yourself nor 
others, but leave Sunday-school teaching to those 
more fitted for the task. You can boast of wider 
spheres of usefulness.” 

“ I should like to try again, just once more,” Georg- 
ette replied, hardly trusting herself to speak. His 
changed manner made her heart sink. She seemed 
farther than ever from understanding him. Could 
a woman then never understand the man she adored? 

He shook his head smilingly. 

a Why this persistence in an office thankless at 
best ? And the same ground has to be gone over 
and over again ; you would soon grow weary.” 

“ I have made this place my home. I should like 
to associate myself with your work, that is only 
natural,” she contrived to get out. 


86 


THE BOMANCE OF 


Again she was answered by deprecation. 

“It is a generous wish. I am heartily grateful. 
But remember the delicacy of my position. I am 
bound to be twice as scrupulous as any other pastor, 
even in the teaching of the Catechism ! ” • 

“ I understand — I understand,” she murmured. 

“ One word more,” he said, as he conducted her to 
the hooded carriage. “ If I am slow to accept your 
hospitalities, and unmindful of your kindnesses, do 
not misinterpret my conduct. I thank you from my 
heart, but even in this remote spot I cannot dis- 
regard public opinion. As a priest I was bound to 
court the World, as a pastor I am under the obliga- 
tion of renouncing it.” 

Georgette held out her hand with a smile, one of 
those smiles some women can command when on the 
verge of bitterest tears, and the two parted. 

She did not venture upon inviting him to dinner 
tliat evening, as she had intended to do. She felt 
in these first moments of cruel disenchantment as 
if she must never invite him again, her old genial 
guest, for whom in former days a cover had ever 
been laid. So the horse’s head was turned in the 
direction of the chateau. 

Evelard re-entered the silent, lonely parsonage. 
Georgette returned to her novels, her croquet with 
.Teunet, her confabulations with Marthe on the all- 
important topic of matrimony. 

She thought she had never found any day of her 
life so wearisome, so monotonous, so apparently 
interminable. From time to time she escaped to a 
certain room in. the house from which could be seen 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


87 


the roof of the Protestant church and parsonage. 

How could Evelard support such an existence, 
she wondered, how endure the privations of his new 
life ? In former days he had been luxuriously lodged, 
delicately served ; now, Jeunet told her, his surround- 
ings were of the humblest, his board, frugality itself. 
But of such discomforts he seemed wholly uncon- 
scious, Jeunet added. He who, in homely phrase, 
might formerly have been styled a fine gentleman, 
ever nice to fastidiousness with regard to material 
existence, now accepted the estate of a peasant. 
From the elegancies and distractions of social life he 
seemed to shrink more and more. 

She owned to herself that he was a mystery to 
her, better perhaps for both that she should hold 
aloof — even, when opportunity offered, quit St. Gilles 
altogether. 

Georgette did not shed tears, she was too much . 
mortified with herself to weep. The day that had 
dawned so brightly, that was to link her with his 
work, in time make her necessary to him, but sep- 
arjited them more and more, and the separation was 
of her own bringing about. 

On the table of her boudoir-like bedroom lay the 
little Testament and Catechism, a few hours before 
harbmgers of golden hope and fairest promise, now 
significant of woefulest failure. 

No one, however, should know of her disappoint-, 
ment and humiliation. She would continue her les- 
sons with the young pastor and her attendance at 
church. Evelard, if met chancewise, should be 
greeted, with an every-day smile. 


88 


THE ROMANCE OF 


CHAPTER XI. 

A VOICE FROM THE TOMB. 

The day had been one of surpassing brilliance and 
beauty, and as the sun slanted westward, a wonder- 
ful calm and mellowness stole over the place. For 
once carping mortals could enjoy a perfect world ! 
Xo less clear than at noonday showed every feature 
of the immense perspective — pearly waves, sands 
bright as tortoise-shell, encircling pinewoqds and fair 
open country, the whole now bathed in tender, amber 
radiance. It was as if a golden veil were drawn over 
earth and heaven. 

Far away, delicately pencilled against the rosy 
heavens, towered the mighty Cordouan, to-day more 
like a thing of dreams, itself a roseate cloud destined 
to melt, than a fortress of mid- Atlantic, proof against 
devastating wind and wave. 

This harmonious, lovely Xature, with its element 
of subdued grandeur, had inexpressible charms for 
Evelard. It seemed to him all that he wanted just 
now, as if nothing else, not even the devotion of a 
woman like Georgette, could soothe and satisfy him 
in equal degree. 

He loved to explore the country far and wide, and 
on this Sunday afternoon had strolled westward in 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 


89 


the direction of Royan. For a while his way led 
amid the sandy undulations of the ancient pine forest, 
the sombre blue-black foliage of the veteran trees 
and the waxen-green seedlings in sharp contrast ; ath- 
wart the red gold stems flitted myriads of large white 
butterflies, whilst every spot was fragrant with wild 
carnation and aromatic immortelles. The dim sea- 
music reached his ears as he went, now in cool 
shadow, now under the open heavens, deeper-hued 
than by day, but less dazzling. 

Soon he emerged into high ground and looked up- 
on the distant spires and port of Royan immediately 
under his feet, the smooth brown sands and placid 
sea between him and St. Gilles, a choice of ways. 
He could keep to the shore, following the tufa cliffs, 
or reach the village by a path zig-zagging on their 
very edge. 

He chose the zig-zag path and the downs, having 
on one side the sea, on the other a vast expanse of 
waste, gradually growing into a garden. Every 
shiftuig scene was full of quiet charm, the sweeps of 
flowery down, the tiny flelds and vineyards border- 
ing the cliffs, the tamarisk groves in rosy bloom and 
dark ilexes hedging little crops of buckwheat in 
lovely flower. Here and there tall hedges, a tangle 
of wild rose, honeysuckle, and luscious blackberry 
protected these hanging flelds. Here and there, deep 
down under the crags, idlers from Royan peered 
hither and thither on the lookout for oysters. 

The walk ended all too soon, and long before he 
wished it he had reached the village, coming in sight 
of parsonage and convent. What would he not have 


90 


THE BOMANCE OF 


given to be able to separate the two, shut out the 
last wholly from his sight ? 

He seemed suddenly driven from a region of 
ideal peace and loveliness into the precincts of a 
sepulchre, a sepulchre haunted by the living, not by 
the dead. 

The sun had now dropped behind the pale gold 
sea, flooding it with ruby glow as of rich red wine, 
the transparent azure of the sky changed to misty 
violet and a star peeped out from time to time. Twi- 
light there had been none. Evening on this coast, 
as in Southern lands, succeeded day without a break. 
The white walls of the convent still gleamed amid 
the swiftly gathering shadows, and as he approached, 
a familiar, unwelcome sound met his ears. It was 
the bell summoning the cloistered Carmelites to 
evening prayer, reminding him of once joyous, joy. 
giving lives consigned to a living tomb. As one 
under a spell, he followed the sound, magnetised 
against his will. 

Although the house itself was entirely isolated 
from the outer world — no prison set apart for the 
most dangerous class of criminals could be more 
so — the chapel was always thrown open during ser- 
vice. It stood within the lofty conventual walls at 
some distance from the road, and was accessible by 
an iron gate or door adjoining the porter’s lodge, 
unbolted for the occasion. 

As a rule the village folk seldom availed them- 
selves of the privilege except on days of high festi- 
val. The extra musical services, the display of ban- 
ners and flowers, would then attract a littl^ crowd. 


A FBENCR PABSONAGE. 91 

But visitors and strangers often came in order to 
catch a glimpse of the nuns. 

They could not see much. The chapel was of 
narrow proportions, but an iron screen shut olf that 
part occupied by the cloistered sisters. 

Motionless as statues or performing automatic 
genuflexions, the white-robed figures were just dis- 
cernible, that was all. Their voices could be heard, 
and as the Carmelites are recruited from the upper 
ranks of society, the musical portion of their 
services is generally worth listening to. 

Such was the case at St. Gilles ; but folks did not 
care for sacred music, they preferred the village 
band of wind instruments ; the majority were Hu- 
guenots, the remainder attended mass at the parish 
church. Only a stray visitor or two reported of a 
wondrously sweet voice to be heard at the convent, 
a contralto, worth going many a mile to hear. Eve- 
lard walked on mechanically. Before he was aware, 
he had passed the by-road leading home, and found 
himself in front of the chapel. 

The tall iron gate, bristling with iron spikes, stood 
wide. Sweet strains of women’s voices reached 
him where he lingered. Actuated as men often 
are by impulses for which they cannot account, 
he walked up the gravel path and entered. Stand- 
ing under the shadow of the organ loft, he gazed 
and listened. There was nothing to see that may 
not be seen in any French town— a rococo interior, 
tawdry ornamentation, ex-votos. in plenty, a few lay 
sisters with their string of pale orphans, and a score-: 
QX. so of. outsiders, mostly peasant women; and chil- 


92 


TBE ROMANCE OF 


dren. Behind the sparsely perforated screen at the 
extreme end and almost concealed by the altar, their 
features wholly indistinguishable, their figures a 
mere mass of white, sat the cloistered nuns — living, 
breathing women, whose, only connection with the 
outside world was this service. The singing soon 
made Evelard oblivious of the conjmonplace sight and 
vulgar display. 

It was an Ave Maria chaunted by a cloistered 
sister behind the screen. No theatrical display, no 
operatic effects, marked the performance. What 
held the listener captive was its penetrating, un- 
imaginable sweetness and pathos. This heavenly 
singing filled the heart with sorrow only. It was 
as if the songstress, like unhappy bird deprived of 
eyesight in order to stimulate his voice, sought here 
relief from a fainting spirit and despairing soul. 
Life meant a dark prison, the body a fetter that 
galled, but melody remained in which to pour out 
all her yearnings for final peace. Love spoke not 
in those passionate accents, nor regret for vanished 
joy ; faith never once made itself heard, no prompt- 
ings of heaven-sent consolation soothed the listener’s 
ear. From beginning to end the song was a crav- 
ing for rest, an invocation to the sable-winged 
Angel whose name is Death ! 

Evelard could bear no more. Stealing out softly 
as, he hoped, unobserved, he made for the door. 

He had not noticed the entrance a few minutes 
before of three persons, who now watched his move- 
ments curiously. Just as the pastor was attracted 
by some unaccountable impulse towards the con- 


J FMENCII PARSOITAGE. 


03 


vent, so Georgette could not help finding herself 
within the precincts of the parsonage. She had no 
wish to intrude upon her neighbour’s privacy, much 
less watch his movements; but somehow, inevi- 
tably as it seemed, her walks and drives always 
brought her close to the Protestant church. 

To-night, for instance, she had merely said to her 
companions, “ Let us take a stroll ; ” and although 
they began by the shore, sauntering on without pre- 
conceived plan, here they were at the convent 
doors, and within a stone’s throw of Evelard’s little 
gate. 

The lighted chapel, the sound of the organ, invited, 
so they went in. Georgette looking round curiously 
— churches always amused her, she said; Jeunet, 
with folded arms, composing the novel that was to 
create a pretty commotion, Marthe demurely con- 
forming to Catholic usages. 

Like most French girls, she was indeed a Catholic 
by inclination ; circumstances, rather unfortunately 
for herself she thought, had made her a Huguenot. 

As Georgette listened to that solo, quintessence of 
melody, quintessence of human sorrow, her expres- 
sion changed. She leaned forward, endeavouring to 
catch a glimpse of the singer, listened more and 
more intently ; at last half rose, as if she must — she 
would glance behind the iron screen. The singing 
ended, they passed out, jostling against Evelard on 
the gravel path. 

Georgette forgot the mortifying events of the 
morning, the collapse of the lesson, the pastor’s re- 
proof, her own good resolutions. She had said to 


94 


THE noMANCE OF 


herself that she would henceforth hold aloof, be 
proud, even distant. These dignified resolutions 
vanished in a moment. Overcome with emotion, 
without a commonplace greeting, paying no heed to 
the presence of her companions, she cried, “You, 
then, were there, too? Like me, you have been 
listening to a voice from the tomb ! ” 

But Evelard, murmuring incoherent excuses, 
brushed by. Before Jeunet could offer a remon- 
strance, he had passed the porter’s lodge and turned 
down the by-road leading home. 

“ Our friend was annoyed at being seen within the 
convent walls,” said Jeunet jestingly. “He fears 
perhaps that we may quote Scripture against him : 

‘ The dog returns ’ — ^you know the unsavoury rest. 
He need be under no apprehension as far as I am 
concerned. Were he to imitate many a divorced hus- 
band taking back to his bosom his discarded darling 
— in Evelard’s case, the Church, — I for one should 
esteem him none the less. What is the hero of the 
perpetually changing front ? He is the possessor of 
a thousand lively sympathies where most selfish 
wretches can boast but one.” 

His hostess seemed less appreciative of these sal- 
lies than usual. On returning home, Bezique, three- 
handed whist, Jeunet ’s readings from Rabelais and 
Moli^re failed to divert. 

The singing of cloistered nuns always made her 
low-spirited, she said. How could women be so 
desperately narrow-minded as to believe that sleep- 
ing on stone fioors, half starving themselves, staring 
at death’s heads and cross-bones till they lost their 


A FUmCS PABSOifAGF. 


05 


wits, could gratify even a heathen deity, much 
more the God of a highly-polished nation like the 
French ? 

In spite of the Exhibition and the Eiffel Tower, 
she despaired of the future whenever she thought 
of it. 


96 


THE BOMAnCE OF 




CHAPTER XIL 

THE DEPUTATION. 

The village still resounded with the trumpet-note of 
chanticleer, “ The guardian, gallant and gay, of the 
great world’s drowsy conscience,” as sings our most 
musical Owen Meredith. 

Soon after dawn, rosy rays like the spokes of a 
wheel shot up from the eastern horizon. The purple 
heavens melted into transparent azure, and as the 
immense prospect became gradually distinct, the 
westward cliffs were streaked with scarlet and ver- 
milion. Last of all, appeared the sun, flooding sea 
and shore with gold. 

Sunrise, like sunset, is gorgeous in these southern 
seaboard regions, but the quieter loveliness that fol- 
lows the flrst peaceful hour of the work-a-day world, 
is more delicious still. Already, ere the sheet of sil- 
very dew has melted from the pastures, changing 
the bluish green to yellow, ere the flrst sun-ray has 
warmed the brisk air, both husbandman and flsher 
are abroad. The blue-bloused farmer is ploughing 
up his little fleld for autumn sowing ; as if interested 
in their master’s welfare the docile tan- coloured oxen 
do their part, obeying word and gesture ; wife and 
children are busy, nearer home, gathering the rich 


A FBEJ^Cir PARSOJ^AGK 


97 


crops of golden fig, ruby-tinted peach and blood-red 
tomato. 

From the level sands come sounds of grating keel 
and sea-faring voices in cheery chorus ; one little 
bark after another glides off, unfurling a tiny white 
sail on the sparkling wave ; soon ocean, like eartli, 
is animated with light-hearted toilers. 

Happy, thrice happy he who wakes upon Monday 
morning to a more than busy week ! P'ew exhila- 
rations equal that of the good worker entering upon 
a welcome task. The difficulties stimulate, the 
drudgery becomes dear. The man, the woman with- 
in, proclaims itself ; all humanity is honoured in a 
piece of honest work honestly done. 

Evelard had rested ill, and was just falling into a 
sound slumber when a loud rapping at the front 
door aroused him. What could such untimely sum- 
mons mean ? Pie was surely needed to baptize a 
dying child, or administer spiritual consolation to 
some adult whose end was near. Hastily dressing 
himself and opening the shutters on his way, he de- 
scended to the front door. As he drew the bolt the 
village clock struck five and a half. 

“ Mr. Pastor, I suppose ? ” said the foremost of a 
little group outside — three portly figures, wearing 
the blue blouse of the peasant ; rather, we should say, 
of the small landed-proprietor. 

Evelard saw at a glance that the intruders be- 
longed to the well-to-do class. The clean blue linen 
smock-frock, so becoming to these dark-haired, olive- 
complexioned Southerners, was to-day worn in order 
to protect Sunday broadcloth. Their turn-down 


98 


THE ROMANCE OF 


collars and wristbands, of fine homespun, white as 
snow, glossy as satin, betokened something more 
than comfort in the home ; their solid gold wedding 
rmgs indicated heads of houses — the genuine Con- 
servative spirit which renders the French peasant, 
in spite of his ardent Republicanism, the guardian of 
family honour and social morality. 

The senior of the deputation, a white-haired 
veteran, stalwart still in spite of his three- score years 
and ten, evidently possessed more knowledge of the 
world, and, perhaps, more instruction than the others. 
It was easy to see that he held some position of au- 
thority, was accustomed to rule, in fact ; the village 
magistrate was proclaimed by sheer force of presence. 
His companions, without lacking dignity, showed 
some shyness and reserve ; they were as yet more at 
home behind the plough than on the civic bench. 
The elder had that look of quiet, well reined-in en- 
quiry so characteristic of his class. -He evidently 
felt himself in a transitive period, of which others 
could render far better account. • On his forehead 
seemed written that beautiful text of the modern 
Gospel : “ The golden age is before us, and not be- 

hind.” His own existence was very laborious. He 
had entered the lists of life sadly handicapped in the 
matter of education ; intellectual enjoyments, but 
dimly realized, could never be his. But his children’s 
children would fare otherwise. The prospect filled 
him with cheerfulness. 

The third of the little party was a comparatively 
young man, shrewdness itself, eminently practical, 
yet alert for change. He, too, was a true son of the 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


99 


soil, removed by three generations only from the serf 
— the taxable, rateable animal, nothing more, in the 
eyes of sovereign and seigneur. 

Strange to say, Evelard could unhesitatingly aver 
that the strangers belonged neither to his congrega- 
tion nor creed. Let ethnologists and physiognomists 
explain the matter as they can. The Reformed faith 
in France has differentiated a physical type. 

“ Yes, gentlemen, I am the pastor. Do me the 
honour to enter and be seated,” he replied, accom- 
modating himself to the phraseology and usages of 
the place. “ My housekeeper sleeps in the village, 
and has not yet arrived, but I know the way to my 
own sideboard.” 

He brought out a bottle of sweet dessert wine, 
filled a glass for each : good wishes were exchanged, 
lips smacked, then the visitors seemed fairly at their 
ease. 

“Mr. Pastor,” continued the first speaker, “we 
know who you are. It is only fair that you should 
be as well informed. I am Mayor of Roche St. 
George, the largest commune, as I daresay you know, 
on this side of La Rochelle. These gentlemen are 
municipal councillors of the same place, and we have 
come to you on a matter of business.” 

“ Mr. Mayor and gentlemen, I am' entirely at your 
service, I shall only be too happy to serve you.” 

“ You are uncommon learned, folks say,” the Major 
went on, glancing at the ineffaceable mark at the 
tonsure — Evelard saw that his history was no secret 
— “you are just our man.” 

He eyed his companions as if anxious to hand over 


100 


tb:bj romance of 


to them the task of spokesman, hut both looked irre- 
sponsive. Then he sipped his Frontignac and cleared 
his throat. 

, “ We are all Catholics, yonder,” he added, point- 
ing over his shoulder. “ There never was, that I 
heard of, a Protestant church or pastor at our place. 
That is no reason why there never should be.” 

“ Not that I can see,” put in the youngest of the 
party, evidently cogitating a longer speech. 

“Nor 1 either,” said the first municipal councillor. 

« But ” thereupon he stopped short and looked on 

the ground. 

His audience waited. He was compelled to go on. 
“ But, might we put such a question without offence, 
Mr. Pastor, — are you married ? ” 

“No, I am still a bachelor,” was the somewhat 
curt reply, an answer which seemed to disappoint his 
hearers not a little. They exchanged significant 
glances. The Mayor went on, — 

“We — Catholics born and bred, mind you — like 
the look of a married minister of religion. We 
should have been better pleased to talk this matter 
over with a husband and father, as each of us are. 
However, that is neither here nor there. What we 
wanted to say was this : folks at St. George would 
like to know something about Protestantism.” 

“ Had you not better tell the Pastor why ? ” asked 
the first municipal councillor shyly. 

“You know as well as we do, Mr. Pastor,” the 
Mayor continued, “ we are pretty sure to find one 
rotten potato in a sack, and one bad priest in a 
diocese.” 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 


101 


“ Alas, Mr. Mayor, human nature is not changed 
by the wearing of the soutane ; shall the fallen priest 
receive less mercy than other sinners ? ” 

“ Not less, but not more,” exclaimed the younger 
man herily, clenching his fist and striking his stick 
on the ground. “ When a priest betrays a poor in- 
nocent orphan girl it is time we have done with such 
gentry altogether. I, for one, am ready to beat such 
scoundrels black and blue, to stand up in the very 

church and bawl out their deeds, to ” 

“ Hush, hush,” his elder put in. “ Let our neigh- 
bour speak.” 

“ A great scandal has just happened in our village, 
then, Mr. Pastor,” the Mayor went on, “ and we are 
here to ask a favour of you. We want you to come 
over to St. George once a week and tell all of us, in 
plain words, exactly the difference between your 
religion and ours. W e like the look of Protestantism . 
As I say we like the notion of a pastor becoming a 
husband and father like ourselves. YOu pastors, too, 
bear a good character ; leastways, I never heard to 
the contrary. What say you to our request, sir ? ” 
“ I cannot, of course, refuse it : I will do my best.” 
“ You will speak out sharp and short, if you please, 
Mr. Pastor. Any blockhead knows a Protestant 
Church from a Catholic when he sees it. We want 
to become as learned concerning the two doctrines. 
Just that and no more.” 

The first municipal councillor looked as if he had 
something to say, and his junior edged in, — 

“ Perhaps, Mr. Pastor, you would let 'any of us, 
who chose, put a question or two after your discourse ? 


102 


THE ROMANCE OF 


A man, even the sharpest often, doesn’t know what 
he understands and what he doesn’t till he opens his 
mouth.” 

“ Certainly ; I am quite willing to accord that 
demand also.” 

“ Confession, for instance,” went on the speaker 
flushed and eager. “ I want to know if in the Old 
Testament or the New women are hidden to regard 
the priest as lord and master ; if the confessor is to 
rule the man’s house instead of himself, the husband, 
the father ? ” 

He struck the table heavily, reddened to the brow, 
and added, — 

“ Make that point clear, Mr. Pastor. Convince 
us that Jesus Christ never invented the confessional, 
and I, for one, will become Huguenot to-morrow ! ” 

His colleague looked a little shocked, at the same 
time the speech emboldened him to speak also : 

“ Might I mention another point, Mr. Pastor ? We 
Catholics worship the Virgin and the saints. You 
Protestants stick to Jesus Christ. I suppose you 
will tell us the why and the wherefore ? ” 

“ The pastor will of course tell us the chief pros 
and cons. I think we had better leave these things 
to him,” the Mayor put in. “ And now, neighbours, 
we should be going. We have kept this gentleman 
long enough, and shall not reach Roy an too soon. 
It is cattle fair to-day, sir,” he explained, turning to 
Evelard, “and we thought you would kindly excuse 
an early visit from us, as we must be there in good 
time, and shall be returning another way. Thank 
you for your hospitality.” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


103 


A few details were gone into, time and place were 
fixed for the first lecture, then the three took up 
their felt wideawakes and heavy-knobbed sticks, and 
made for the door. The elder councillor lingered. 

Glancing kindly, almost compassionately, at Eve- 
lard, he began, in a hesitating tone, — 

“ You must be a trifie lonely, sir ! ” 

“ Yes, this parsonage would better suit me were 
it smaller. A man is reminded of his solitude when 
he has half-a-dozen empty rooms at his disposal.” 

His interlocutor looked into the crown of his hat, 
glanced at his companions, and finally summoned 
courage to get out the rest : 

“No offence, Mr. Pastor, but seeing the sociable 
kind of man you are, and knowing that a pastor no 
more than a cure is paid like a bishop, might I men- 
tion a matter I have just thought of ? Suppose, 
should it happen, that you are thinking of matri- 
mony — I believe in your Church marriage is looked 
upon as a duty — I could mention a match no man 

need snap his fingers at ” 

“ You are very friendly, but, my good sir—- — ” 

“ Nay, hear our neighbour out. ’Twill do no harm, 
anyhow,” the Mayor put in, laying a fraternal hand 
on Evelard’s shoulder. 

The irresistible topic of matrimony could even 
make French farmers forget the fair. 

“Widow Cross, neighbour, ’twas of no other I 
was thinking,” the speaker continued, winning a 
nod of approval from his colleagues. “A master 
woman, as we say, and no mistake. * Mr. Pastor, 
’t would do you good to see her set her folks a flying 


104 


THE ROMANCE OF 


when caught dawdling. Plump as a pouter pigeon, 
brisk as a lark, with a voice like a railway whistle — 
no matter what you are about you can’t help hear- 
ing it, and a heel tapping the ground sharp and 
short, you might swear it was the woodpecker on an 
oak tree. And an eye, ah ! at the back of her head, 
as the saying goes. Just the wife cut out for a 
book-learned man and minister of religion like your- 
self. A trifle older, certainly ; but a giglet of twenty 
would never do in a parsonage, and Widow Cross’s 
age” — here he glanced at his friends, the three 
exchanging significant smiles — “ Widow Cross’s age, 
sir, no fellow in his senses would think of twice. 
She is worth a hundred thousand francs if a sou ! ” 
This sentence, uttered triumphantly, and regarded 
by all three as a climax, fell flat. 

Evelard again began to make excuse ; on a sudden 
the speaker brightened up, — 

“Ah! I know what the pastor is thinking of, 
neighbours. The widow’s religion ! But she is a 
Protestant like yourself, sir, comes of a Huguenot 
stock. Then there is another thing. She has 
minded her husband’s business up till now, a compact 
little wine trade. But, as she told my wife the other 
day, she wishes to marry again and retire. If Mr. 
Pastor catches at the notion, and there is no time to 
lose, such a woman may be snapped up any day — 
what say you, neighbours ? I might take on myself to 
mention it to her, she being a sort of relation of my 
wife’s, and the two. Lord bless you, getting on like 
cooing doves together I ” 

“ You have my sincerest thanks, friend,” Evelard 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 


105 


replied, pressing the speaker’s honest hand. “ Yon 
wish to render me a substantial service, I am sure. 
But the thing is impossible, for reasons I do not 
care to go into now ; such a project is wholly out of 
the question.” 

There was no more to say ; in friendly fashion 
they took leave, the last speaker looking rather 
crestfallen. In spite of Evelard’s cordiality, he 
feared lest he might have given offence. 

With mixed feelings Evelard watched the stal- 
wart figures as they struck across the meadows, 
brushing the dew from the blue-green pastures on the 
way. Their errand pleased him. He felt happy at 
the prospect of a busy week, of a succession of busy 
weeks. The task thus forced upon him could but 
be congenial, and it came opportunely. So far, 
Monday had begun well. 

But that benevolently-meant interference with his 
domestic life made him uneasy. He felt convinced 
that the match-making propensities of his neigh- 
bours, shared with most country folks, could not 
easily be held in check. Sooner or later these wor- 
thy people would insist on marrying him against his 
will, the verb to marry in France having the force 
of a Greek deponent, our own passive, with stronger 
meaning. 


106 


THE ROMANCE OF 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE INDISPENSABLE THIRD. 

It may almost positively be affirmed that no French 
marriage takes place without the mediation of a 
third person, some sympathetic outsider indispen- 
sable to the bringing together of suitable fortunes, 
social positions and characters, the third element of 
harmony being usually relegated to the last place. 

Certainly, there is much to be said in favour of 
the arrangement. No suitor exposes himself to the 
mortification of a direct refusal, whilst a lady, with- 
out acting the part of Celimene, is thereby enabled 
to select her future husband. 

When the exhilarating morning’s work was over, 
the rapidly- conceived, brillantly-executed disquisi- 
tion for the village conclave ready, Evelard’s thoughts 
reverted to his own affairs. The portrait of the 
prosperous widow, sketched so glowingly, haunted 
him as a nightmare. He seemed to hear the voice 
like a railway- whistle, and the heel that tapped the 
ground like a woodpecker on an oak tree. He saw, 
with the mind’s eye, his tranquil retreat invaded by 
that implacable enemy of scholarly repose, the model 
housewife, ever busy with broom and duster. And 
again and again came the penetrating sound of the 


A FBENCB PABSONAGF, 


107 


convent bell, awakening a buried past, calling up 
memories too sweet, and at the same time too pain- 
ful, to be dwelt upon. 

“ I am growing morbid. I will make an end of 
these vain regrets and insane yearnings,” he mused. 
“ And the honest farmers are right. A pastor is 
bound by virtue of his position to take unto himself 
a wife. I will marry ! ” 

He sat down to pen a word to Jeunet, when he 
saw his friend hastening up the garden path. 

“ You will give me some breakfast, I am sure,” 
said the welcome visitor, fanning himself vigorously 
with his straw hat. “I am obliged to return to 
Paris to-morrow, and I wanted particularly to see 
you before starting.” 

Evelard’s black-hooded duenna was instructed to 
break half-a-dozen eggs into her pan instead of two. 
Meantime the friends sat down to freshly-gathered 
oysters, alternated with little sausages hot from the 
gridiron. Between host and guest lay one of those 
glossy, crisp brown loaves, a yard long at the begin- 
ning of the meal, diminished by two-thirds ere it 
came to an end. Neither had as yet broken his 
fast. The pair fell to with splendid appetites. The 
verve and elasticity of the French temperament are 
explained by their conduct at table. We phlegma- 
tic northerners eat to satisfy hunger, the finer kind 
of gastronomic discrimination seldom enters into 
the business. France, the nation of superlative cook- 
ery and delicate feeders, is naturally also the land 
of gaiety and irrepressible hopefulness. When eat- 
ing is cultivated as one of the fine arts, men have a 


108 


THE BOMANCE OF 


material and also a social gratification to fall back 
upon that ofttimes wards off despondency. 

It was now noonday, and the shutters were par- 
tially closed to keep out the blazing sunshine. The 
narrow aperture disclosed a dazzlingly brilliant 
scene, segment as it seemed of mosaic in precious 
stones, sky deep in hue as lapis lazuli, sea of lus- 
trous malachite green, sands smooth and brown as 
polished jasper, conspicuous ever the mighty Cor- 
douan, just now of pure, opaque white, monolith of 
ivory between the green and the blue. A gentle 
breeze blowing off the Atlantic just lifted the par- 
tially-lowered Venetian blinds from time to time, 
bearing sea sounds and sea-fragrance. 

In the immediate neighbourhood of the parsonage 
all was very still. 

“ I wanted to see you, too. We will discuss my 
own affairs over our cigarettes. I hope nothing of 
a disagreeable nature recalls you to Paris ? ” 

Jeunet poured into his tumbler about a wineglass- 
ful of the sweet light wine of the district, filled to 
the brim with water, swallowed the whole, then 
began, — 

“ Pleasant as it is to be reminded of one’s wife 
sometimes, it is equally agreeable to forget. I have 
been too long in Capua, as Suzanne to-day writes 
word. But I return at Christmas. Madame De- 
linon wants my help then. She is getting up a 
little pastoral play, and I am constituted stage- man- 
ager. Meantime, I need hardly say that my bene- 
factress insists on paying me beforehand for such 
services. Look here ! ” 


A FBENCB: PAnSOJStAGF. 


109 


He brought out his purse, unrolled a little packet 
of hundred-franc notes, and thumbed them com- 
placently. 

“ Here is the best receipt for domestic felicity : a 
thousand francs as I live ! The first time in my life 
that I was such a capitalist. But don’t think I 
accept gratuities ! I am that dear, angelic woman’s 
bookkeeper, accoimtant, and man of business.” 

“ I am glad Madame Delinon has at least one dis- 
interested person about her,” Evelard said. 

“ The worst of it is,” the other went on, pocketing 
his rouleau with a rueful expression, « my poor 
Suzanne will not see the matter in its proper light. I 
don’t know how it is with others, but a Frenchwoman 
can never be brought to tolerate her husband’s re- 
gard for one of her own sex, no matter hoAV innocent. 
In her letter this morning, my wife positively black- 
guards me — I borrow the apt expression of our 
English neighbours; and for what? — for earning 
bread for all of us ! Madame Delinon invites her to 
return with me at Christmas. We shall see how 
that proposition is received at head- quarters.” 

“Generous, warm-hearted creature,” ejaculated 
Evelard. 

“ I am glad that you think as highly of her as she 
does of you,” the other replied, eyeing his host with 
a peculiar expression. “We will talk of — of the 
business I came on after breakfast. By the way, 
what an excellent table you keep, how comfortable 
you seem here ! I almost wish I had followed your 
example and become a pastor too.” 


110 


The bomamce of 


“ You forget that I did not throw up Christianity 
in breaking with Romanism.” 

“ True, true, I am best where I am ; and as to 
Suzanne’s httle tantrums and the mother-in-law’s 
acerbities, these are mere bagatelles, not worth a 
second thought. Life cannot be all undiluted en- 
joyment. The undiluted enjoyment is to be able to 
enjoy. This delightful repast I shall not soon for- 
get. The matchless view from your window, the 
sea food — these little green oysters and coral-pink 
prawns — all is of a piece, all makes up a picture.” 

The friends chatted on till dessert had been par- 
taken of, then each twisting for himself a tiny cig- 
arette, they puffed away, sipping their coffee between 
whiles. 

“ You had something to communicate, I believe?” 
Jeunet asked, after a pause. 

“ You also came on a definite errand. Your own 
turn first, then,” replied his host. 

“ I yield you right of way,” Jeunet said, looking a 
little embarrassed. 

Evelard changed colour, too. Bending forward 
he tapped his cigarette on the heel of his boot, took 
a longer whiff than usual, drained his small coffee 
cup, and began, — 

“ You will learn perhaps with some surprise that 
I have made up my mind to marry.” 

“ You could hardly, sooner or later, fail to arrive 
at such a conclusion. Your new position exacts it.” 

“ I begin to realise that already. My case, you 
see, is wholly exceptional. By force of circum- 
stances, I am a marked man, my conduct open to 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


Ill 


strictest scrutiny, the least deviation from routine 
rendering me liable to censure. For weighty 
reasons I have hitherto refused to contemplate such 
a step ; I now see that it is necessary, if not to 
happiness, at least to my freedom, my honour, my 
chances of being useful as a pastor.” 

“ Is not that rather an odd way of putting the 
question?” 

The other threw his unfinished cigarette out of 
the window with a gesture of impatience. 

“What would you have me say? How can I 
think of mere happiness ? Affections have cost me 
too much. I dare not love any more. You have 
seen my sister many a time ; her fireside was as my 
own, her fatherless children idolised me ; had they 
been mine I could hardly have loved them more. In 
that little circle I tasted purest joy, and now — but I 
cannot talk of it. See here ! ” 

He thrust a packet into Jeunet’s palm, and turn- 
ing his back upon him, pretended to adjust the 
Venetian blinds. 

Jeunet, opening the large envelope, saw three let- 
ters addressed by the ex-priest to his sister. They 
had been returned with seals unbroken. 

“In heaven’s name, my dear friend, what else 
could you expect?” laughed the Rabelaisian with 
some bitterness. “You and I are social lepers, and 
the world considerately saves us the trouble of 
wearing the bell. We are kept at a safe distance 
without. As a wholesome corrective, let me read 
you an extract from my dear old mother’s letter to 
myself, received this very morning. You will, I 


112 


THE BOUANCE OE 


dare aver, say that if speech is silver, silence is 
golden after the reading. In conjunction with my 
wife’s, I felt as if I had had a double tooth wrenched 
out.” 

He put down Evelard’s envelope, and producing 
a shabby leathern pocket-book, showed four pages of 
closely- written manuscript. 

“ Here is a parable for you ; the angelic doctor 
himself could hardly have improved upon it,” he 
began, spreading open the first sheet upon his knee, 
and steadying it there with his folded hands. 

“‘Yesterday was apple gathering here,’ writes 
the dear old lady. ‘ As I sat by the trough picking 
out the rotten ones for the pigs, I thought of you, 
my lost, my perjured son ; you also — once sound to 
the core — to be cast into the pit.’ Humph ! not a 
bad simile that, but she had always a turn for meta- 
phor. Well, what comes next? ‘I was praying 
to the Virgin for your poor lost soul, when old Jus- 
tine hobbled up ; she is hard of hearing as you know, 
and has lost her memory. “ Ah ! mdre Jeunet,” says 
she, “ you’re a happy mother. My Jacques went to 
the bad ; but yours, bless him, what a stay he has 
been to you, to be sure ! ” She said that, and I only 
laughed : I never cry about you now, I can’t cry any 
more ’ ” 

The hitherto jaunty reader stopped on a sudden, 
made a feint to clear his throat, went to the table 
and swallowed half a tumbler of water, then awk- 
wardly refolded the letter. As the two men reseated 
themselves, a tear still stood on Evelard’s pale cheek, 
and Jeunet’s eyes were red. 


A FBENCB PABSOJSTAGE. 113 

“ The confessional is at the bottom of these dread- 
ful estrangements,” the pastor said, when both had 
in some degree recovered themselves. 

“ It is the curse of France, this ‘Subjection of our 
women to the priest. One would think that even 
Frenchwomen had sufficient enlightenment nowa- 
days to honour all who make sacrifices for conscience’ 
sake. No such thing ! Could you and I be com- 
pelled by sheer force to return to Rome to-morrow, 
our mothers and sisters would be the first to rejoice. 
Let us forget these things. You have a child, des- 
tined, we will hope, to bring her parents closer to- 
gether. I am utterly alone.. Sympathy in little 
things, a daily interchange of kindnesses, duties 
mutually shared, may yet give me something worthy 
to be called a home. Respect, consideration, friend- 
ship, I would offer a wife. Let us be clear on one 
point — deeper feeling is out of the question — I have 
no love to give ! ” 

“ Not even to a Madame Delinon?” 

“ Madame Delinon ! ” cried the other, starting. 
“ She is adorable ; but not to be made our topic 
now.” 

Jeunet started in turn, eyed his friend incred- 
ulously, and would fain have interupted him. Eve- 
lard went on quietly, — 

“ Just because she is the most lovable, the most 
generous woman in the world, we must not speak 
of her. No, my good Jeunet ; find me some well- 
bred, high-principled Protestant. An English gov- 
erness of my own age would suit me well ; one who 
would marry a country pastor out of sheer benevo- 
8 


114 


THE ROMANCE OF 


lence and a sense of Christian duty. There is a 
sphere for the minister’s wife at St. Gilles. I begin 
to realise that. These good people al’e a trifle sordid* 
They live too muph for material ends ; need social 
and intellectual as well as spiritual awakening. And 
there would be the home, the fireside, — wedded in- 
terests of impersonal kind. Surely less worthy ex- 
istences have satisfied single-minded affectionate 
women before now ? ” 

Jennet listened sadly. Was this prosaic picture 
to be the complement of a career opened under such 
splendid auspices, of gifts so rare, a character so 
magnanimous ? He fidgeted in his chair, opened his 
lips, stopped short, finally blurted out, — 

« What if .they should satisfy her you find ador- 
able?” 

Evelard confronted his friend with a strange look. 
Then he said slowly, never once taking his eyes 
from the other’s face, — 

“ Hear something now, for the first time confided 
to living soul. Like me, you have been a priest ; you 
know as well as I do that the tonsure does not 
transform the man. Like many another, I loved 
when to love was a crime, and my passion was 
returned.” 

Just then, whilst the pair looked at each other as 
if interpreting inmost thoughts, drawn closely, 
solemnly together by unspoken confidences, under- 
standing, crystal clear outsiders could never share, 
a tinkling sound broke the sultry noonday stillness ; 
it was the bell of the Carmelite convent. That 
monotonous^ metallic chime but heightened Evelard’s 


A mENGH PARSONAGE. 115 

agitation. He walked up and down the room with 
a desperate face. 

“ Society, superstition rampant still, made crimi- 
nals of us, and how monstrous our punishment ! 
For her, as exquisite a spirit as ever made earth its 
temporary hiding-place, fearfulest expiation m a liv- 
ing sepulchre ; for me, remorse not to be got rid of 
till I follow her to the tomb ! How can I woo any 
woman with such memories as these ? Marriage, in 
my case, may mean peace, mutual support, even 
affection ; it can never mean love ! ” 

He closed the casement as if to shut out the ob- 
noxious sound and reseated himself, gradually grow- 
ing calmer. Seeing his changed mood, Jeunet ven- 
tured to put in, — 

“ Are not the gleanings of Ephraim better than the 
vintage of Abiezer ? Unless I am greatly mistaken, 
a lady I will not name, since you forbid me — a lady 
we both set on a pinnacle, would accept you, aye ! 
with all your social and* spiritual bankruptcies, be- 
fore any rival living. Man alive ! Are you blind ? 
I must speak out, cost what it will — that was my 
errand — that dear woman followed you here. Her 
heart, no truer, warmer ever beat in human breast, 
her fortune, are yours. Will you churlishly reject 
as bright a future as ever beckoned any man ? 
Have done with these morbid regrets. Make me 
your emissary in this delicate business. It will con- 
sole me for my own matrimonial fiasco if I am the 
means of bringing you two together.” 

“ Do with me as you will,” Evelard said ; “ but she 
must know the truth, the whole truth, remember ! ” 


116 


THE ROMANCE OF 


“ Chut, chut,” retorted the other. « Time enough 
for such outpourings afterwards. They give zest 
to the tUe-^-tUe dinner-table on winter evenings. 
And love — well, I will say marriage instead — mar- 
riage is a gift horse that fortunately women do not 
look in the mouth. But I confess, my dear friend, 
I don’t understand you in the very least, no more 
than the mole understands the differential calculus. 
You look positively humiliated by a conviction that 
would make other men strut like peacocks.” 

Evelard shook his head. 

“ I care too much for that lady not to wish that I 
could care for her more,” he said. 

There, as far as Georgette was concerned, the talk 
ended. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


117 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE EOMANCE OF MIDDLE AGE. 

Next day Evelard and Madame Delinon met un- 
der circumstances insular lovers would have found 
to say the least of it, excessively embarrassing. 
So traditional, however, is the mediation of a third 
person in French matrimonial affairs, and so deli- 
cately, nay, perfectly, had Jeunet discharged his 
■ mission, that both felt absolutely at their ease. 

Georgette’s heart beat quickly ; Evelard, perhaps, 
acknowledged too pleasurable emotion. Awkward- 
ness, faltering, trepidation, there was none. When 
the suitor entered his mistress’s presence, the 
woman of the world — the affectionate, light-hearted 
leader of fashion and society, the coquette — received 
him as she had done scores of times before. For 
a moment he could hardly realize their altered posi- 
tions. Once more he seemed to belong to the fas- 
cinating little circle of which she had been the orna- 
ment. Once more raillery and persiflage seemed 
natural and easy. For a brief moment the ordeal 
he had lately passed through, the crowning mortifi- 
cation and crowning triumph of his life, were for- 
gotten. 

It was the delicious hour of late afternoon, and 
Georgette accorded audience in her favourite room, 


118 


THE ROMANCE OF 


that upper boudoir from whence could be just dis- 
cerned Evelard’s church and parsonage. Imme- 
diately below stretched her English garden, fragrant 
with ruby and topaz-coloured Marvel of Peru, and 
the low growing large-petalled evening primrose; 
beyond lay her own tiny bay, a fairy scene, sea and 
shore resplendent with raspberry-tinted clouds and 
golden sunrays. Against the pure sky of tenderest 
blue rose masses of sombre ilex and silvery aspen, 
perpetual repose, perpetual mutability, side by side. 

Happy Frenchwomen, who do not think them- 
selves into white hairs before their time! Georg- 
ette had reached an age when most of her sisters 
become grandmothers, that doubtful bliss often at- 
tained in France before the fortieth year. But her 
abundant brown hair made a superb coronet still, 
and in her light hopeful-looking dress, soft, quick-sil- 
ver coloured silk, on which seemed thrown a basket- 
ful of Neapolitan violets, she looked quite youthful. 
She held an enormous black fan, lighted up with 
silver butterflies, and only her persistent fanning 
betrayed a mood not of every day. 

She advanced towards him smilingly. He smiled 
also, paused for a moment on the threshold, then 
going nearer studied the engaging picture. Finally, 
he bent forward and kissed her on the brow. The 
respectful salute might have been accorded a queen. 

“ How charming is this boudoir ! and how sweet 
your prospect ! ” he said, glancing round. “ You 
always contrive to have beautiful surroundings.” 

“ Why not ? ” she replied gaily. “ They make one 
so happy.” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


119 


“ You are happy, yet you are ready to change 
your position,” he began, taking a chair beside her. 
“ Is that wise ? And Jeunet has explained every- 
thing. I have gone through more than one ordeal.” 

He looked at her significantly, almost solemnly, 
but she only smiled. Jeunet had indeed hinted at 
his friend’s early attachments. Could she expect 
the devotion of a lifetime ? Was she herself on the 
threshold of existence ? Had she not loved or 
fancied herself in love years ago ? 

“ It is only friendship I can ofter you,” he began, 
with a look of humiliation, “the friendship of a 
much tried, saddened, lonely man. These dreadful 
inner confiicts lately experienced, I can hardly 
expect others to measure them, seem to have 
deadened my feelings, to have made me almost 
indifferent to happiness and affection. Can you 
associate your lot with mine under such chilling 
conditions, link your loving, joyous, joy-giving 
existence to one so cold, so self-centred, so aloof 
from your own interests ? ” 

She looked down, toyed with her fan, and tapped 
her httle mauve- stockinged foot on the ground im- 
patiently, — 

“ Tell me, in plain words, that I am a child, a 
trifler, a worldling. Your interests will become 
mine. Did I not do my best at the Sunday- 
school ? ” 

“ Then,” he added, in a different tone, “ there .is 
no necessity for me to pour out my gratitude now ; 
you would only be made to yawn. A homoeopathic 
dose administered at lengthy intervals will perhaps 


120 


THE BOMANCE OF 


be just endurable. But, dearest lady, dearest friend, 
jesting apart, have you well weighed this Quixotic 
resolution? Think of my worsened fortunes, the 
kind of existence you would be condemned to lead 
here, the descent in the social scale, the sacrifice in 
matters of dress.” 

He smiled, the old ironic smile of former days, 
and, taking up a fold of her gown, examined it 
attentively, then drew back, contemplating the 
general effect, beautifully-dressed hair, pearly white, 
blue- veined dimpled wrist and arm, little foot so 
daintily stockinged in mauve silk, and slipper to 
match. 

“How you understand the art of magnetising 
poor mortal eyes ! But, seriously, dwell on your 
decision for a moment. Bend your mind to the 
issues involved. A Frenchwoman, at least, a French- 
woman like Georgette Delinon, would accompany 
her husband to Leper Island without a second 
thought, would share with him the horrors of 
Siberia, for his sake, mount the scaffold magnani- 
mously as Madame Roland. Would such a heroine 
give up the milliner, forswear Monsieur Worth and 
the show rooms of the Louvre ? Not if her beloved’s 
verv existence and her own depended on the sacri- 
fice.” 

“ Are pastors’ wives bound to make scarecrows of 
themselves, wear poke bonnets and coarse serge like 
the lady captains of the Salvation Army ? ” she 
asked, affecting alarm. “ Monsieur Jeunet had not 
the courage to tell me that.” 

“Our good Jeunet, I fear, has left out many 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


121 


• points,” he said, growing sportive in turn, indeed, 
almost loverlike. Her gaiety and confidence were 
irresistible. 

“ Yes, my sweet friend, there is no denying the 
truth. If you marry — a poor pastor — not only the 
chateau and the pretty fiat near the Parc Monceau, 
but the man milliner, the adorable, must go also. I 
shall have to take you in hand myself. You saw 
those worthy matrons on Sunday in their black hoods 
and coarse bombazine gowns. The best plan will be 
for me to borrow a complete costume and have an 
exact copy made for you. The fitting is not of the 
slightest importance, the less these things fit, the 
better 

Georgette gave a little scream. 

“A pastor’s wife,” Evelard went on, playfully, 
“must not seem to know or care whether she is 
young or old, handsome or ugly. A pastor’s wife, 
my wife ” 

Both had been entirely at their ease till now, his 
light satire warding off more delicate topics ; love- 
making, in the accepted sense of the word, was im- 
possible to him, even more so that cool, matter-of- 
fact discussion of practical affairs, so natural to 
French lovers when planning their future. Those last 
words made Georgette shy as a girl. Tears started 
to her eyes, her lips trembled, she quitted his side 
and went to the window. 

“ Come here,” she said, in low, unsteady tones ; 
“ I want to show you something.” 

He rose, and as they stood thus looking out, caught 
one little hand in his own. 


122 


TRE ROMANCE OF 


The casement opened from the bottom, forming * 
two wings, after French fashion, and both stood 
wide. 

Outside was a little iron balcony reaching half-way 
up ; Georgette leaned on the edge, indicating the 
parsonage roof with her black and silver fan. 

“ This is my favourite room. I like it because I 
can catch a glimpse of your home. I am always 
looking in that direction,” she went on ; her voice 
dropped to a whisper. “ I am constantly thinking 
of you. You did not, perhaps, know it ? I was pre- 
sent at your consecration. In my poor ignorant way, 

I felt proud of you for giving up so much, it seemed 
to me, for so little ! And, without quite realizing 
what I did, I prayed for heaven’s blessing on your 
step. I prayed, too, for something else. And the 
prayer has come true.” She turned to him with a 
radiant face and exclaimed through her tears, — 
“Why should I mind telling you the truth? I 
prayed that we might be brought nearer together, 
that you might care for me more. You are noble 
and generous, I will conceal nothing. I followed 
you here. Order then, the black hood and bomba- 
zine dress for me, if you will. I will wear them 
proudly for your sake, and my wealth to the last 
franc shall be yours for the poor ! ” 

Could any man, however bruised in spirit, how- 
ever enslaved by old memories, resist such an appeal ? 
Evelard put a hand on each shoulder, and as the 
beautiful head sank for a moment on his breast, 
spoke out with all a lover’s tenderness, — 

“ And I,” he murmured, in tones as fond and 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 


123 


tremulous as her own; “I shall find fife once 
more dear and beautiful, because shared with 
you. The future shall atone a thousandfold for the 
past ! ” 

Whilst they lingered thus, side by side, the joy- 
ous tear still glistening in her eye, the glow of newly- 
awakened feeling on his face, a metallic tinkle, clear, 
though far off, broke the stillness. 

The bell of the Carmelite convent could be heard 
even here. 

Evelard’s expression changed, a look of intense 
humilation succeeded loverlike tenderness. He loos- 
ened hold of her hand, and re-entered the room. 

“ You are like me,” Georgette said, following his 
example ; “ the sound of that bell ever makes me 
melancholy. I think of my friends buried alive 
there, of my sweet Bertrande above all. And the 
Ave Maria last Sunday, how like that voice to 
hers ” 

“ Let us talk of the living, not of the dead,” he 
broke in, with a look of pain almost of horror. 
“ Close the window, for heaven’s sake, dear friend, 
or, better still, let us go downstairs, out of doors.” 

“ Shall we join Mar the on the shore ? She went 
an hour ago to bathe with Mariette, and should, be 
out of the water by this time,” said Georgette. 

“ Where you please, dear lady.” 

They descended to the large, ilex-bordered fruit 
and vegetable garden at the back of the house, and, 
passing through a side door, strolled by the undulat- 
ing sands and scattered sea-pines to the bay. Eve- 
lard mechanically plucked fragrant pinks and im- 


124 


THE ROMANCE OF 


mortelles as he went, offering them to his compan- 
ion. Once, indeed, he put his hand through her 
arm, an accepted sign of intimacy always. But he 
was preoccupied and pensive. All affectionate con- 
fidences and looking forward were over for that 
day. 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE, 


125 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN ADVENTURE. 

The weather was still sultry, although the sun 
was low and, according to the calendar, autumn had 
already begun. Gorgeous as had been the day, even- 
ing showed hues richer and deeper still. Not a 
breath stirred the tulip-tinted wave. Motionless, 
as in a picture, narrow vermilion and orange-coloured 
clouds barred a pale sapphire sky; Far away, the 
ilex woods stood rigid as blocks of ivy- clad masonry, 
only the aspens trembled, smiled ever, making moon- 
light ripple in broad day ! 

The bathing season was virtually over, yet when 
Evelard and his companion reached the shore they 
found it animated with little groups, strollers in the 
sea as they are aptly styled. 

Here three little lads, in scarlet flannel bathing 
dresses, disported themselves under the supervision 
of a priestly tutor, his black robe making him look 
like a gigantic raven among flamingoes. There a 
family party — father, mother, son and daughter 
wearing the costume good-humouredly accepted as 
both decent and becoming — walked up to their 
shoulders in the delicious sun- warmed water. In 
another spot, an elderly portly pair, husband and 


126 


THE BOMANCE OF 


wife, regardless of appearance, indulged in the 
adored, and as is comfortably believed, hygienic 
exercise. Yet in another, two girls, frolicsome as 
kittens, making the place ring with their laughter, 
danced, jumped, dived, attempted to swim, played a 
dozen foolish pranks, proud to be listened to and 
looked at. They had walked out so far that at 
times only their heads were just visible, but on these 
level sands, amid these almost motionless waves, 
such a conduct hardly savoured of temerity. Sun- 
down nevertheless was at hand, and they had 
already been too long in the sea. 

“ Marthe, Mariette, it is growing late, come away 
at once,” cried Georgette, the pair feigning not to 
hear. The intoxication of being gazed at was 
irresistible. They played more venturesomely, 
laughed louder stUl, and meantime got farther and 
farther away. 

“ It is really very wrong of Marthe and Mariette 
too ; she is the elder, she ought to know better,” said 
Georgette, growing greatly vexed. “ They will 
both take a chill, that is quite certain. Ah, there is 
Monsieur Bourgeois, just going into the sea ! We 
will send him after the giddy, disobedient things.” 

Evelard shouted. Georgette waved her hand- 
kerchief, bystanders arrested the young pastor’s 
attention. Instead of walking into the sea, he 
made straight for his fri-ends, no little gratified at 
being seen in so becoming an attire. 

Pastor Bourgeois, not without just cause, felt 
of his muscular development. He stood five 
; jjl t in3hes without his shoes to begin with, his 


A mmCB PAB80NAGB. 


127 


shoulders were broad, his limbs if wanting symmet- 
rical proportion would not have disgraced a 
professional athlete. The costume he now wore, of 
blue and white serge, barred horizontally, and 
admirably setting off the warm flesh tints, barely 
reached from collar-bone to knee, the short sleeve 
displaying a brawny arm. Thus jauntily attired, 
and unusually exhilarated by so lucky a combination 
of circumstances, he advanced with hasty strides. 

“ I wish you good evening, Madame. Ah ! good 
day, Mr. Pastor : you both surprise me in, well, 
what shall I call it ? ” and as he spoke he compla- 
cently eyed his well-revealed manly porportions, 
adding, — 

“ I assure you nothing could be more comfortable 
this sultry weather ; a trifle unbecoming, some may 
think, perhaps,” here he glanced down at his well- 
developed legs, and struck out with his formidable 
arms, “but what is appearance compared to con- 
venience ? Thus attired I am as good as two — two of 
my ordinary self I mean. Just look ! ” 

He made a feint to thrust and parry, and was in 
the humour for a series of evolutions, when Georgette, 
not without difficulty, stopped him. Pointing to the 
two girls she begged his immediate intervention. 
« They must be fetched at once : would he render 
her the service ? ” 

No errand could have gratifled the young pastor 
more. He should thereby be enabled to display 
his prowess as a swimmer, and enjoy an adventure 
into the bargain — an adventure, moreover, of which 
his bride elect was heroine. Without another word 


128 


tbs: bomabce of 


he hurried away, having quite a martial air as he 
strode forward, his fine fiesh-tints gleaming coral- 
pink in the rosy sunset. Soon the warm purple 
waves reached his waist, and he was within a yard 
or two of the scatter-brained bathers. Brandishing 
his arms, shouting stentorian orders, he made for 
the pair, but the faster he strode, the faster they 
edged away. 

If there was one sea-board in all France where 
drowning is next door to an impossibility, that spot 
is certainly St. Gilles-rur-Mur. Never in local 
annals had amateur swimmers been known to find 
a sailor’s grave off this benignant coast. So long 
the stretch of level sands, so oily smooth the 
almost tideless water, that one bathing season after 
another passed without accident. To-day it really 
seemed as if the place was destined to be thrown 
into mourning. 

At first the game of hide-and-seek was amusing 
and mirthful enough. As the stalwart figure in 
horizontally-barred blue and white, advanced menac- 
ingly, his thrice- repeated message being met with 
laughter and defiance, the little crowd on the shore 
vociferated, cheered, clapped hands. Now the 
pretty culprits were egged on to further rebellion, 
now their paladin was encouraged to sterner 
threats. The bay rang with explosions of merri- 
ment, even Georgette and her companion could not 
resist a smile. 

But, on a sudden, horrified silence succeeded these 
noisy outbursts. The foolish sport ended after 
alarming fashion. In their efforts to hold Bourgeois 


A FItENCH PARSONAGE. 


129 


at bay, the two girls had got beyond their depth, and 
were now struggling frantically in the water. 

Two or three bystanders, Evelard among the num- 
ber, threw off their coats and hastened to the rescue, 
but the young pastor’s position, for all that, seemed 
critical. He was at some distance from the shore, 
the bathers in their struggles were getting farther 
and farther from him and each other ; before help 
could arrive, one of the pair must be in deadly peril, 
— so, at least, it appeared, to aghast lookers-on. 

Georgette turned away her face, unable any longer 
to watch the scene. 

Pastor Bourgeois showed himself fully equal to 
the occasion. Never stout-hearted Perseus advanced 
more gallantly to the rescue of two Andromedas. 
Striking out in the direction of the nearer, he 
breasted the delicious water as if in his element. 
Plunging, diving, in desperate haste and earnest, he 
succeeded in rescuing Marthe. A jubilant huzza 
rose from the crowd when they descried two heads 
where only his own had been visible just before. 
That tremendous effort over, the sturdy swimmer 
made for the other struggling figure, bearing up his 
burden as best he could. 

A few seconds of suspense ashore, and a louder 
and yet more exultant cry echoed from end to end. 
Rescuer and rescued had momentarily disappeared, 
then Bourgeois was seen making laborious way 
through the waves, one girl held up, the sleeve of 
the other caught between his teeth. Like a heavily- 
laden water-dog he gained inch upon inch, then feel- 
ing the sands under his feet, plunged boldly forward, 
9 


TBE EOMANOE OF 


130 

a dripping, half-fainting damsel tucked under each 
arm. 

The bystanders cheered louder and louder, and 
half-a-dozen men made a rush towards the trio ; Eve- 
lard, shoeless, stockingless, with pantaloons turned 
up, and in his shirt sleeves, seized Marthe and bore 
her to the nearest bathing hut; another gallant 
looker-on performed the same friendly service for 
her maid; a third was dispatched to the village inn 
for cordials ; a fourth, to the chateau for carriage and 
blankets. Before an hour was out, the news of the 
adventure had reached every ear in the place. The 
postmistress, who added to her income as news- 
paper correspondent, telegraphed full particulars to 
the local organs. Pastor Bourgeois had suddenly 
become notorious ! 

If to have saved two fellow- creatures from dr own- 
ing is an exploit to be proud of, to have been the 
object of it may well appear to some almost in the 
light of heroism ; so, at least, Marthe and Mariette 
regarded the matter. From that moment their self- 
importance increased enormously. They described 
the event with every little detail over and over again, 
they posted long narratives to every soul of their ac- 
quaintance. They never tired of discussing it when 
by themselves. One might have supposed that these 
two giddy Andromedas had each rescued a Perseus ; 
yet their deliverer was a hero in their eyes, as much 
so as any man can be in the eyes of some women. 

To Pastor Bourgeois himself the occurrence 
brought unmitigated pleasure. That evening he was 
naturally pressed to dine and sleep at the chateau, 


A FUENCH FAU80NAGE. 


131 


Georgette overwhelmed him with compliments and 
kindnesses, Evelard and Jennet congratulated him 
on his physical powers and presence of mind in the 
heartiest terms. The event had raised him several 
inches in the estimation of others, to say nothing of 
his own. If, after the praise — and the champagne 
— he grew self-laudatory and garrulous, was it not 
excusable? Heroism of the higher order has given 
the world ideals, but it is the homelier kind of 
courage and endurance that has built up its history. 


132 


THE BOMANCE OF 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE EOMANCE OF YOUTH AND PLOTS. 

“ A REPRIEVE ! a reprieve ! ” 

Thus shouted Jeuriet next day, bursting in as the 
little party at the chateau sat down to breakfast. 

His portmanteau, ready packed, stood by the front 
door ; wraps, hand-bag and umbrella had been 
brought downstairs ; in another hour the village 
omnibus was to take him to the railway station, 
bound for Paris. 

“ A whole week’s respite, seven days’ grace ! ” he 
cried joyfully, waving an open telegram above his 
head. 

Georgette looked up placidly from her carving, she 
was one of those accomplished Frenchwomen who 
can coquette, argue, keep general conversation going, 
and at the same time carve a difficult joint. So 
skilled indeed, are her countrywomen m this art, 
that outsiders might fancy Paris possessed carving- 
schools as did ancient Rome. 

“ I am very glad,” she said quietly. 

■“ Only very glad ! ” retorted Jeunet ; but no liv- 
ing soul can conceive what such a leave of absence 
is to me, quite idle to expect it. Seven days more 
of freedom of speech, liberty of the press — ^in our 


A FBENCR PABSONAGE. 


133 


Liliputian quarters of Paris one cannot write a 
letter without being overlooked — no ignominious 
little worries, no squabbles with the wife of one’s 
bosom ” 

“ Do come to table,” urged his hostess. “ The 
pheasant is getting cold.” 

“How can I eat at such a time?” Jeunet made 
answer, running his fingers distractedly through his 
hair. “I was famished half-an-hour ago. Over- 
much joy has completely destroyed my appetite, and 
I must send a telegram to my dear wife without los- 
ing a moment, she will want to know that I approve 
of her arrangements.” 

“ As if I should not ! ” he added. “ Inconsequent 
darling ! Why, a week at Fontainebleau with 
mamma and baby is exactly the thing for all three ; 
how considerate of her uncle to invite them just 
now ” 

“ Pray sit down ; the omnibus conductor will take 
your message,” Georgette said. “And the heat is 
very great on the high road. It is really imprudent 
to expose yourself to the meridian sun.” 

Bourgeois, who had stayed on, and seemed likely 
to stay on, now rose and playfully forced Jeunet in- 
to a chair, and Marthe, laughing and screaming, held 
him down. Under such pressure he consented to let 
the telegram wait, and swallow a mouthful, just a 
mouthful, he said, for the sake of good manners. 

Breakfast now went on merrily, only the mistress 
of the house was more thoughtful than usual. Does 
not the French proverb say “ Joy maketh afraid ” ? 
She was too glad, to be merry. 


134 . 


THE BOMANCE OF 


When her visitors had retired to the smoking- 
room, she beckoned Marthe into her own. The pair 
sat down in that charming boudoir, since yesterday 
so full of passionate memories. 

Georgette opened the shutters an inch or two, and 
placed herself where she could get a glimpse of the 
parsonage. Marthe seized upon a fashion-book just 
arrived from Paris, and during the interview turned 
it over eagerly. 

“ Did you send for this on my account, dear aunt ? ” 
she asked. “ How kind of you ; and here are the 
latest novelties in the way of brides’ dresses, what I 
wanted to see above all things ! ” 

“ No, indeed ; the number came as other circulars 
do. I had no idea you wished to become a bride so 
soon,” Georgette replied. “ But, tell me how your 
acquaintance with Monsieur Bourgeois progresses ? 
You have now seen each other several times. I ob- 
served, too, that you were talking together this 
morning in the garden. What did you say to each 
other ? ” 

“ What did we say to each other ? Let me try to 
remember. Oh, dear aunt, do look at this new 
design for a bodice, is it not pretty ? and it would suit 
me I am sure.” 

She rose and hung over Georgette, her forefinger 
pointing to the design. 

Aunt and niece examined it minutely. Georgette 
would not have been a Frenchwoman unless she 
regarded dress as the one thing worth living for, no 
matter how we may appraise the rest. 

“Extremely graceful. The sleeves, of course. 


A FBENGH PARSONAGE 135 

should have lace puffing, and the gathers of the 
bodice itself be a trifle' fuller, as you are so slight. 
But, after all^ the character of a husband is more 
important than the make of one’s wedding-gown. 
Tell me about your conversation with Monsieur 
Bourgeois ? ” 

She put back the fashion-book, which Marthe, 
however, continued to scan with unabated interest. 

“ Well, he asked me first of all if I had slept well, 
and felt no worse for having been half-drowned yes- 
terday . And when I said yes, he replied that he was 
very glad, very glad indeed. I then asked, in turn, 
whether he was quite sure that he had* not taken 
cold in so kindly coming to my rescue, and he said 
that, on the contrary, he never felt better in his life, 
— oh, dear little aunt, I must show you this morning 
gown, to be made of white cambric with open-work 
and sky-blue ribbons. The love ! Might I have one 
like it in my trousseau ? ” 

Again Georgette gave undivided attention to the 
pattern-book, then resumed her catechising. 

“ When he had said that,” Marthe went on, “ I, in 
turn, told him I was very glad. Our conversation 
flagged for a little while ; we looked at the melons, 
and he asked me if I preferred melons with salt and 
pepper before breakfast, or y^ith sugar at dessert ; 
I replied, with salt and pepper before. He next 
said that he was anxious to learn my likes and dis- 
likes, — I could guess the reason why, — and that if I 
fell in with your wishes and his own, I should never 
have reason, as far as he was concerned, to regret it. 
I answered that I had no doubt whatever on the sub- 


THE ROMANCE OF 

ject ; I quite took him at his word. Whereupon he 
added that such a speech from the lips of a young 
lady like myself made him feel proud as a peacock. 
You then called us to breakfast.” 

“ A very satisfactory beginning. Nothing could 
be better. But you must see each other often. 
And as to the trousseau and the wedding-day,— 
they can surely wait a little longer; anyhow till 
the Spring.” 

Marthe looked glum. 

«We will see. I will hear what your fiance 
says,” Georgette replied good-naturedly. “But the 
gentlemen will have finished their cigars by this 
time. Let us go downstairs.” 

The sun was now off the croquet-ground, bordered 
by ilex trees. 

Madame Delinon and Jeunet sat down under their 
shadow, whilst the lovers played a game, Marthe’s 
slender figure, pretty girlish dress, self-conscious 
laughter, lending an air of romance where none ex- 
isted; as well look for eglantine and honeysuckle 
on the walls of the Bourse ! 

The young pastor looked radiant. To be on easy 
footing with the world of fashion and elegance was 
the fulfilment of an ardent aspiration. The matter- 
of-fact maiden in pink muslin, and broad-brimmed 
and tasseled Tuscan hat lined with crimson satin, 
prefigured, to his thinking, quite an ideal wife. 

Irreproachable in dress, manners and bringing up, 
she typified that correctness which is the first vir- 
tue of a Frenchwoman. She could be relied upon 
to say and do the proper — in other words, the ac- 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 137 

cepted — thing in the proper accepted manner. Could 
any reasonable man ask more ? 

“I have other commissions for you in Paris,” 
Madame Delinon began, as she watched the lovers 
approvingly. “ You will make the necessary pre- 
parations for our New Year’s festivities, the little 

Pastoral Play. But ,” she added, looking shy 

as a schoolgirl — an English schoolgirl: shyness is 
not an accomplishment taught in French convent- 
schools. “ I have not yet named the subject to our 
friend Evelard. He could hardly object?” 

“Dear lady ! Would existence, would human be- 
ings, be endurable if we were not each in turn called 
upon to object — and in vain? The wife who makes 
a Pope or Czar of her husband handicaps his moral 
progress past help. It is the unreflecting affirma- 
tion, the perpetual yea, the reiterated Amen, the 
be it so, that keeps society still in its swaddling 
clothes.” 

“ Evelard is always saying that a pastor, especially 
one in his position, is bound to respect public opinion.” 

“ But not to bow to it ! ” Jeunet cried, more 
vehemently than before. “What is it that renders 
the Reformed Church in France so un progressive ? 
Protestantism, in spite of its noble principles, an 
influence often so deadening ? — the narrow-minded- 
ness of its clergy. Let Evelard strike out a new 
path for himself, show that spiritual freedom logi- 
cally implies freedom of other kinds, — domestic, so- 
cial, intellectual, — and he will have done good ser- 
vice to the cause of Truth generally. His sacriflce 
will not have been made in vain.” 


138 


THE ROMANCE OF 


“ I shall just hear what he says concerning the play. 
My notion is to invite the village folk ; to make it, 
in fact, a popular entertainment our friend might 
even approve. Now for my other errand. I have 
something strange to tell you.” She paused, to en- 
courage Pastor Bourgeois in his croquet, then went 
on, — 

“You remember the singing at the Carmelite 
convent last Sunday? how much the Ave Maria 
impressed me ? how Evelard seemed startled by it ? 
I cannot help thinking that he, as well as myself, 
was reminded of one we both knew in years gone 
by, — a girl I loved dearly — whom none could help 
loving ! ” 

Here Marthe, with loud hand-clapping, insisted 
on being noticed, applauded ; she had won her game. 
The interruption over. Georgette continued, — 

“ Hers was a strange story. She was a rich or- 
phan, with brilliant prospects. Quite suddenly, and 
for reasons she would never so much as hint at, she 
became a nun, and, after the necessary probation, 
took the veil. Her final retreat no one belonging to 
her could ever learn. I believe it is here ! ” 

“ A supposition truly romantic but highly impro- 
bable. In the first place, how long is it since this 
misguided young lady took final vows ? ” 

“How long? Let me count the years. Four, it 
must be — yes, four. Bertrande began her novitiate 
the very year oi mj fete — ^three years earlier. You 
remember my account of the Pastoral Play, and 
what a success was the whole thing ! The two dates 
are fixed in my memory.” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


139 


“ Four and three make seven. My dear Madame 
Delinon, is it possible that you can be serious? You 
think a Carmelite nun, a girl delicately reared too, 
ever survived seven years of the savage regime ? If 
the body bears up, the mind is pretty sure to give 
way ; but Death, the befriender, whose image is 
daily invoked within the convent walls, is no laggard 
there, take my word for it. And why on earth 
should a cloistered sister live on ? The sooner she 
is despatched to celestial mansions the better for 
herself and all concerned.” 

“ My poor Bertrande,” Georgette murmured, for 
a moment covering her eyes as if to shut out the 
dismal picture; “once so bright, so beautiful, so 
loving! Listen, dear Monsieur Jeunet. I am deter- 
mined to obtain an interview with that singing sister. 
I am a skilful plotter ; there are ways and means, 
but I cannot act alone.” 

“ On my word, I believe you are bent upon dis- 
interring your friend. Madame Delinon, Madame 
Delinon, beware ! ” 

“ I yearn to know the truth,” she replied, taking 
no notice of his insinuations. “ To find out whether 
my Bertrande — I loved her as a younger sister — is 
alive or dead, happy or wretched. It is strange how 
often I find myself thinking of her here. And Eve- 
lard too, who knew and admired her with the rest. 
The voice last Sunday, so like her own, the perpet- 
ual tinkle of the convent bell, recall her to his mem- 
ory also, I feel sure of it.” 

Jeunet made a wry face. “ Maybe, like the rest 
of us — of us priests, I mean — our friend finds matter 


140 


THE BOMANCE OF 


for self-reproach here. He may, in former days, 
have advised some fair penitent to betake herself to 
such a charnel-house. But consider, dear lady, a 
political exile in a mid- Siberian fortress enjoys lib- 
erty by comparison with a cloistered nun. And the 
gaolers of the first, Cossacks armed to the teeth, are 
mere make-beliefs, shams, scarecrows, compared to 
the ogresses who here guard their prey. Excuse 
strong language. Like Evelard, I loathe the con- 
ventual system. Granted that you succeed in 
obtaining an interview, what then ? ” 

“ I must find out whether I am dreaming or no ; — 
if indeed it is Bertrande I listened to last Sunday,” 
Georgette cried with deep feeling. “Do not damp 
my hopes. Help me if you can.” 

“ You have only to give the word of command. 
Shall I scale the convent walls this very night ? ” 
asked Jennet. 

“ Listen to my plan. To make friends with the 
Superior is the easiest thing in the world. Am I 
not rich and a Catholic by birth ? A pretext for 
speaking to the singing sister will not be difficult 
either ; but you know the rules of these cloistered 
houses. Conversation has to be carried on with two 
thickly curtained gratings between nun and visitor. 
No adult is permitted to see a recluse face to face. 
Voices deceive; I could hardly identify my friend. 
A child, however, who has not yet taken her first 
communion, may have the curtain lifted. Find me 
such an ally ! ” 

“ My wife shall send you her niece, Jane JMary, 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 141 

eleven years old ; but, like all your born Parisians, 
a woman in every thing but stature.” 

“A clever child, put on her guard beforehand, 
would be able to discover the truth, and Bertrande’s 
face was one easy to particularise. I could, of course, 
afterwards make myself known to her. What joy 
to both to meet once more ! ” 

“ Scant matter for anticipation it seems to me ! 
To open a poor prisoner’s door half an inch, then- — 
clang, bang; back go bolt, chain, and key again. 
Have it all your own way ; Jane Mary is entirely at 
your service.” 

Marthe and Bourgeois now came up, and, dropping 
into low garden chairs, fanned themselves vigorously. 
Conversation took a general turn, the lovers being 
tired of croquet and tete-d-t^te. 


142 


THE BOMANGE OF 


CHAPTER XYII. 

THE STORM AND THE SUMMONS. 

In these gorgeous latitudes, season follows season 
with scarcely perceptible transition. Just as starry 
evening supplants sunbright day, no shadowy, neu- 
tral-tinted twilight intervening, so boisterous Au- 
tumn brusquely overtakes adolescent Summer. The 
rosy peach harvest is barely gathered, the seagreen 
melons still ripen as they lie ; sunbrowned, sweated, 
adust, the husbandmen clothe themselves lightly as 
tropical sugar-planters, and, lo ! on a sudden, at the 
touch of unseen wand, all is changed. Torrential 
rains blur the 'landscape, a hurricane lashes into fury 
the glassy sea, heaven and earth echo the dissonance 
of wind and wave. 

Thus it now happened at St. Gilles. But yester- 
day, the scene had been one of almost unearthly 
sweetness and placidity. Ideal summer seemed to 
have enthroned herself in this little paradise, never 
more to be dislodged. The morrow brought a storm 
phenomenal in its force and destructiveness. 

Evelard had settled down with the conviction 
thac existence here matched such idyllic scenes and 
benignant climate. ' Dire inner conflicts, sharp war- 
fare between man’s loftier and baser nature would 


A FMENCB PARSONAGE, 


143 


surely not mar these delicious pastorals ! Good and 
evil ever exists side by side ; where, unless among 
his unsophisticated neighbours, should the good be 
expected to prevail ? 

He was soon undeceived. Ere his first month had 
run out, he found himself brought face to face with 
dark phases of life and passion, assailed by problems 
as dire as any that vex the mind. 

On the second day of the storm came a temporary 
lull. The wind no longer surged with the same vio- 
lence, rain fell at intervals, a sullen mist obscured 
earth and heaven. Only from time to time the white 
fog broke, showing a beacon light that gleamed afar. 
It was Cordouan, its airy column lifted to the skies, 
the only steadfast feature in the scene. The swirl- 
ing waters met and parted, horrible chasms opened 
and closed again, yeasty whirlpools sucked in the 
eddying currents. Ever and anon amid the chaos 
the lighthouse could be discerned, conspicuous, im- 
movable, as the straight pillar of light, stretching 
across heaven and earth in the vision of Er, the 
Pole star no surer guide’ to mariners than its fiery 
cresset. 

Evelard was preparing to confront the weather 
when a loud knock with a knob- stick — doorknockers 
and bells are regarded in the light of ornament here 
— called him to the front door. Throwing it wide, 
there stood in bold relief, against the background of 
white fog, a sturdy, sea-faring figure, dripping like 
a water-dog. Rain was running in little rivers from 
his slouched oilskin hat, stout leathern jerkin and 
high boots, his weather-beaten face glowing like a 


144 


THE BOMANCE OF 


hot coal, the only hit of colour in the neutral- tinted 
picture. 

“ Come inside, friend ; the sight of a fire won’t 
hurt you on such a day as this,” Evelard said cheerily, 
motioning his visitor towards the kitchen. 

A wood fire blazed on the hearth, over it, sus- 
pended from a hook, seethed a cauldron giving forth 
savoury steam ; his ancient black-hooded housewife, 
bending low, banked up her potatoes with the red- 
hot embers in a second cooking- vessel. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Pastor,” replied the intruder 
gingerly, stepping onto the door-mat and shaking 
the rain from his hat, “ another time. There are 
three that wait for no man — the clock, the tide and 
the Grand Seigneur, Death.” 

“ I am entirely at your service,” Evelard said. 

“ Wait a bit, Mr. Pastor,” the man said, eyeing 
him steadfastly, and partially closing the door so as 
to keep out the damp sea- fog. “ You’re a landsman ; 
have you a stout heart, a sea-stomach, a devil-me- 
care or trust-in- God spirit, with the rest of us ? If 
not, you’re no man for this job. I’ll e’en go in quest 
of another.” 

“Duty — like Death — must not be kept waiting. 
State your errand?” 

“ Then, Mr. Pastor, it’s just this. Will you venture 
with me straight away to the lighthouse yonder? 
There is no time to lose ; our comrade is dying out 
there, and only a minister of religion can make him 
even with God and man.” 

“ I said just now that I was at your service. Let 
us start without delay.” 


A FBENCB PARSONAGE. 


145 


The burly sailor again perused his host, evidently 
taking measure of his physical and mental powers. 
Although every inch a civilian, dress, look and man- 
ner betokening the man of thought rather than 
action, Evelard would be the last to shirk peril or 
tremendous responsibility. His look of calm, im- 
swerving resolve told so much, whilst his well-made, 
close-knit frame indicated, if not extraordinary 
strength, great capacities of endurance. On the 
whole, the inspection seemed satisfactory. 

“ There is one question more I should like to put. 
Excuse me, Mr. Pastor, could you manage — in case 
of need — an unruly woman ? ” 

The other was hardly able to resist a smile. His 
guest went on, — 

“ You see, ’tis a queer business we’re going upon. 
We have to take a woman with us ; not one of your 
quiet, respectable sort, but a make-believe fine 
madam, a fiy-away, painted thing — you know what 
I mean.” 

He opened the door, once more shook his dripping 
garments ; then closing it, fumbled for something in 
the farthest corner of a capacious pocket. 

“ This is the errand that takes us yonder,” he said, 
producing a little card-paper box, in which were a 
couple of wedding rings, one large and massive for 
a man’s finger the other half its size. “ You are to 
marry two folks for the sake of legitimising a child, 
the little girl of my comrade dying in yon light- 
house. And we have to take her mother with us, 
who, as I was telling you, is no better than she should 
be, and who left her — husband I was going to say, 
10 


146 


THE nOMANCE OF 


husband doubtless he would have been ere this had 
she stayed with him — her lover and child, then, to 
lead a flaunting life in Paris. And back she’ll go to 
it, I’ve no doubt, as soon as he has done his best to 
make an honest woman of her. These creatures, 
you see, Mr. Pastor, are like the phylloxera, the pest 
of the country, there’s no cure for them. ” 

“ Had we not better start at once ? ” asked Eve- 
lard, seeing that the worthy seaman was growing 
garrulous. 

“ What I wanted to say was this. The storm has 
abated, but the sea is still wild enough to frighten a 
poor lost thing like that clean out of her senses, and, 
as you have probably heard, ’tis always a hazard- 
ous journey to Cordouan on account of the currents. 
In fair weather many a boat has been wrecked there 
before now.. My comrade and I shall have enough to 
do with our oars. Will you undertake to look after 
the woman ? Ho jumping about, no foolish antics, 
remember, or she may send us. all to the bottom.” 

Evelard promised to do his best, and made signs 
to his deaf housewife ; a tin of coffee bubbled on the 
hearth, whilst he flnished his preparations. The 
old woman filled two cups, added half-a-dozen lumps 
of sugar and a teaspoonful of brandy to each. Host 
and guest swallowed the stimulating draught with- 
out a word, the latter nodding approval as he re- 
turned his empty cup. Then they stepped out into 
the bleared, vague, misty world. The familiar land- 
scape was unrecognisable in the clinging sea-fog. 

Twenty minutes later, looking the only real thing, 
in a world of phantasmagoria, their boat put off to 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


147 


sea. In sharp contrast with the unsubstantial aspect 
of sky and waves, now stood out the burly figures 
and ruddy complexions of the sailors, cheeks under 
slouched oilskin, hands above the rowlocks, glowing 
like robin redbreasts amid wintry snows . Crouched 
by Evelard sat the woman, her small, neat, hard 
features almost hidden by the hood of her water- 
proof, only the diamonds glittering on her ears and 
the gold bracelets on her wrists, indicating habits 
at variance with accepted standards. She seemed 
to defy criticism ; with thin lips compressed, eyes 
bent on the ground, at first apparently indifferent 
to the hazards of her present position. 

For a time indeed all went well. Straight as an 
arrow the little craft was guided towards the light- 
house. The rowers had hitherto plied their oars 
gently, almost lazily as it might seem to the unini- 
tiated. They but reserved nerve and sinew for the 
strain to come. No sooner were they half way, than, 
bending forward, they put out all their strength 
and rowed with might and main, as if for dear life, 
for dear life indeed it became. 

Time now stood still for that little crew. Such 
imminent peril was almost daily fare to the iron- 
nerved mariners. Evelard clung less tenaciously 
to life than most people, yet the next half-hour was 
perhaps as horrible to all three as to the shrink- 
ing, awe-stricken creature sharing the same sus- 
pense. Difficult and hazardous of approach at all 
seasons, the lighthouse seemed to have drawn them 
into a fatal circle, from which there was no escape. 
Hither and thither, resistless as a child’s coracle, the 


148 


THE BOMAnCE OF 


boat was whirled by the strong currents; now 
making superhuman efforts, the rowers gained a 
little ground ; now they were violently forced back- 
wards, their work having to be done over and over 
again. 

Almost to touch the dull heavens appeared the 
angry waves, nothing visible through the mist but 
the ever-advancing, ever-retreating Cordouan Wili- 
n’- the- Wisp of ocean ; one moment it seemed their 
own, within a stone’s throw, the next far off, im- 
reachable as the very clouds. And in seeming 
mockery of man’s impotence, triumphant over 
Nature’s sway, hissed and shrieked the buffeting 
winds, a thousand angry voices making up the din. 

From time to time Evelard glanced at the boat- 
men, but there was nothing to read on their weather- 
beaten faces. Accustomed as they were to danger, 
this 'was but one hand-to-hand encounter more with 
the Inevitable. Not a storm- season waned but such 
men are brought face to face with death. They 
meet the grim phantom stolidly, for all that con- 
gratulating themselves when he passes by. 

Thus the fearful seconds dragged on, each a little 
life-time — the yestreen, to-day and morrow of ex- 
istence crowded, condensed into one moment’s agony. 
Were they an inch nearer their goal? Would that 
goal ever be reached, or was the end of all things 
here, — these seething hungry, merciless waters, these 
leaden heavens, their last glimpse of Life ? 

Up to the present time the bowed, shrinking 
figure by Evelard’s side had remained outwardly 
calm. With dry eyes she gazed upon the waves, 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


149 


perhaps reassured by the stolidity of her eompanions, 
or, it might be, resolute to behave in such a crisis as 
a lady should. She had evidently made up her 
mmd to betray no emotion. Whatever happened, 
she would be the object neither of pity nor rebuke. 
They were now indeed near the lighthouse. The 
airy column, hitherto vanishing as they approached 
it, at last took definite shape ; the wreath of vapour 
became solid masonry, when a wave, more formid- 
able than any as yet encountered, bore down upon 
them. Like a discharge of artillery, crushing rank 
and file with low, ominous war, it advanced swiftly 
and surely, the lofty white crests making still more 
horrible the dark gulf below another moment and 
the little boat must surely be bent like a straw, 
sucked into the vortex. The men put out all their 
remaining strength, Evelard sat as if turned to 
stone. The woman stirred not an inch. Only 
from her pale lips went forth a cry, perhaps the 
sincerest utterance of a tawdry life : — 

“ Minister of Christ,” she moaned, “ pray for me I ” 


THE BOMANCE OB 


160 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

LITE AND DEATH. 

But Evelard’s strange mission was to be accom- 
plished. Friendly help was now at hand. Voices 
made themselves heard above the din of wind and 
waves, a rope flung from the lighthouse reached the 
boatmen where they sat ; a few minutes more and 
the drenched, benumbed passengers were safely 
hauled up the outer stair. A Are blazed in the 
small, dark kitchen, and before it an old sailor, 
wearing a blue cotton bib-apron, fried buckwheat 
pancakes ; a block of meat frizzled close by ; from, 
green and yellow pipkins, placed between the ashes, 
came savoury steam of tomatoes and mad apples. 
The long, narrow deal table, clean scrubbed showed 
covers laid for six ; snowy-white napkins of coarse 
homespun, a small carafe of pink wine and half a 
foot of bread accompanied each plate. Little saucers 
of olives, mushrooms soaked in oil, and strong white 
radish stood ready, after old Roman fashion, to whet 
the appetite for more substantial dishes. 

The narrow chamber barely admitted standing 
room for the little party. Evelard, in order to re- 
store circulation, lifted one foot, then another, 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


151 


rubbed his arms and legs; whilst his companion 
stood over the blazing logs till her sallow cheeks 
became crimson, no trace of agitation now on that 
small, hard-featured face. With averted eyes and 
thin lips compressed, she seemed to shrink from 
notice and sympathy. Rid of her dripping mackin- 
tosh this fashionably-dressed little figure looked 
strangely out of place amid such surroundings, nor 
did their unusualness appear to touch her. The 
turbulence without, the grim realities within, her 
own share in the day’s events — to all these things 
she was apparently indifferent. A two-inch square 
looking-glass hung by the mantlepiece; before it 
she now deliberately adjusted her bonnet, replaced a 
stray lock, smoothed down a ribbon. With a sense 
of danger had vanished trembling self-consciousness 
and glances towards the Unknown. 

The kitchen was a scene of hubbub and stir ; the 
clatter of knives and forks, the splutter and bubbling 
of cooking vessels, the crackling of the logs, and the 
loud voices of the men, almost stifling the uproar 
outside. But in the sick man’s room all was still, 
save for the surging wind and waves. As he lay he 
could see the wide Atlantic, to-day no glassy sheet 
of pure transparent green, image of infinite peace, 
and ideal repose, rather emblematic of the perpetual 
warfare of human passion, the all-embracing limit- 
less sea of the conflict called human life ! 

No condition offers more startling contrasts than 
that of the French peasant. Here you may meet a 
model character moving amid an artless entourage ; 
there mingled with much that is honest and praise^ 


152 


THE ROMANCE OF 


worthy the grosser element comes into play, and 
standards of life and conduct are hopelessly degraded. 
Not even the august approach of death can sometimes 
banish sordidness and materialism. 

Evelard now looked in vain for a sign of softened 
feeling from the pair brought together under cir- 
cumstances so solemn. The shock-headed, pallid 
man just raised himself on his pillows to greet the 
minister, and to say, as he glanced at the neat little 
figure following him, — 

“ Is Celine Meurice there ? ” 

“ Yes, Jean Yitu, it is I,” answered an unmoved 
woman’s voice. That was all. Without a word 
more Evelard was asked to begin. . 

Throughout the interview the light-house-keeper 
remained unmoved as Celine herself. This final 
bringing together of long- estranged father and 
mother for their child’s worldly welfare ; this strange 
wedlock, making husband and wife of two beings 
once dear to each other, forthwith to be separated 
by the grave itself, seemed to these two a mere 
legal formality, the signing of an every-day contract 
hardly more so. 

The brief service over, both appeared anxious to 
be rid of each other’s presence. 

“ Listen ! ” Evelard said, after giving his benedic- 
tion. The beneficent law of France consents thus 
to legitimise the offspring of unholy passion at the 
eleventh hour, and lets the parents go unreproved. 
But there is a Power above the law, a Power which, 
no matter our creed, arraigns the actions of men. 
To the husband and father in this case, the voice of 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


153 


the Eternal says — ‘Forgive as thou hopest to be 
forgiven.’ To the wife and mother, Christ being 
the mouth-piece — ‘ Daughter, thy sins he forgiven 
thee. Go and sin no more.’ You trembled before 
the storm just now,” he said, turning round sharply 
confronting the woman with incisive gaze. “ You 
implored me to pray for you. Of what avail 
prayers without amended life. And, think you, God 
is heard in the storm only, that retribution but dogs 
our footsteps in the hour of peril ? Our most pros- 
perous moments may find us at the bar of Con- 
science, unpitied of self, despairing, alone. Brother, 
sister, I now leave you. Harken to the voice of 
God and of your better selves. Make your peace 
with each other and with Heaven ere you part for 
ever.” 

“ Stay a bit, minister. I’d like to hear a chapter 
before you go,” said the sick man. “ And pray 
understand, sir, this gewgaw,” here he pointed to 
the ring on his finger, “ has made matters straight 
between the girl and me. But I couldn’t do more ; 
I’m bound to think of the child. Celine,” he added, 
in a dry almost chuckling tone, “ it is only right to 
tell you, — I have left you nothing ! ” 

“ You owe me nothing,” was the sullen reply. 

“ The little I have scraped up is for my daughter’s 
dowry. My own people will marry her respectably 
when the time comes. ’Tis a*strange thing that a 
woman should prefer diamonds to her own babe, but 
it is not for me to reproach you ” 

“ Is that all you have to say ? ” she asked, edging, 
towards the door. 


154 


THE BOMANGE OF 


“ You may go if you like. But remember, Celine, 
’tis only fair that the pastor here should hear the 
truth. You were free to choose between an honest 
life and one of shame. I promised marriage had 
you stayed.” 

“ Was this a bearable existence for any girl ? ” she 
asked, glancing at the window, and shrugging her 
shoulders. “ The very thought of it makes me shud- 
der. And your temper was none of the best ; you 
owned so yourself.” 

“ Temper, temper ! ” murmured the other impa- 
tiently. “ What else can girls like yourself expect ; 
unable to cook even so much as an omelette prop- 
erly, wasteful of everything ” 

“ You took good care that there was nothing to 
waste. I remember days when I had barely enough 
to eat.” 

The eyes of the dying man glared ; he made an 
effort to raise himself. 

“ Barefaced inventions, wicked falsehoods, un- 
blushing lies ! ” he cried, lifting his hand menac- 
ingly. “ Silence that tongue of hers, pastor, or by 
Heaven ” 

Evelard, inexpressibly shocked, held up an admon- 
ishing hand ; the old peasant woman, acting as nurse, 
came forward. 

“I daresay you had both something to put up 
with ; when did man and woman live together like 
the angels up above ? But now, dear,” she said, ad- 
dressing herself to the patient, “ let the pastor read 
to you, and I will take the lady dovm to breakfast. 
They’re waiting for her, I’ll warrant ” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


155 


“ Mind and keep something hot for the minister,” 
murmured the host faintly. 

“ Tush, tush ; as if old Pierre would forget ! 
‘Hasn’t he got a beefsteak on purpose for the gentle- 
man ? Here, just a teaspoonful of cordial, darling — 
that’s it; now lie still and listen nicely.” 

The dying man made a feint to clench his fist at 
the retreating figure of his newly made wife, then 
fell back on the pillow. A shrewd, almost sardonic 
smile lighted up his massive, once handsome fea- 
tures. 

“ I had the little hussy there — I had her there,” 
he murmured, chuckling to himself. “ I’ve left you 
nothing, I said ; and though she pretended not to 
care, I know how mortified she was ; ’tis worth dying 
to have paid her out.” 

Without a word of remonstrance, E velar d began 
to read. By little and little his hearer grew calm 
and attentive, the cloud of evil passion vanished 
from his face. He listened, repeating a word or two 
now and then. 

“ Yes,” he said, “let the learned talk as they will, 
Mr. Pastor ; men want a religion, the wise as well as 
the foolish ; and which ever way we look at it, when 
our buying and selling is over, and all that we see of 
the world is from a little window, soon to be shut 
for ever, then Christ is everybody’s man. He helps 
us to die ! ” 

Meantime, whilst peace was gradually taking pos- 
session of that little bed-chamber, very different was 
the scene below. 

The Parisian, now freed from Evelard’s restrain- 


156 


THE BOMANCE OF 


ing presence and retributive thought, acknowledged 
herself famished with the rest. She prepared the 
salad, helped old Pierre to dish up, added the finish- 
ing touch to the table, then sat down and made a 
hearty meal. 

It was Madame this, Madame that, from beginning 
to end. What were folks talking of in Paris ? How 
looked the vines and orchards passed on the way ? 
And the weather ? Did the Loire threaten inunda- 
tions in Touraine? Were the crops much knocked 
about in Vendee ? 

These rough seafarers found pleasant relief in the 
society of this agreeable-looking, well-informed, affa- 
ble little lady. She could enter into their views as 
easily as she could do justice to the somewhat coarse 
but abundant fare placed before them. The feast 
could hardly be called jovial, the company spoke in 
undertones, yet glasses were chinked ; ere coffee ap- 
peared, everybody had become everybody’s friend. 

When, at last, Evelard went downstairs, he found 
the kitchen silent and deserted. The weather had 
improved, and his three companions were silently 
smoking cigarettes on the little gallery outside. Old 
deaf Pierre now bustled in. Which dish would the 
pastor have first? A woodcock and prime bit of 
skate had been put aside for him, he said, hand on 
ear, as he tried to catch the answer. 

Evelard slipped a silver piece into his hand, point- 
ing to the table, on which stood all and more than 
he needed. Warming himself as he ate, he break- 
fasted hastily, now anxious to be gone. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


157 


CHAPTER XIX. 

VISIONS. 

It was night-fall when, weary and dispirited after 
the events of the day^ Evelard reached his home. 
As he unlocked the front door, he remembered that 
his old housekeeper had asked permission to retire 
early, promising to leave everything in readiness for 
dinner. The darkness and silence within did not 
surprise him, yet as he entered, he stood still, over- 
come with a conviction as startling as it was sure. 

He was not alone. Instinctively he felt conscious 
of a presence. Just as animals at once detect the 
proximity of any living, breathing thing, no matter 
the darkness or security of its hiding-place, so cer- 
tain sensitive human natures are alive to personal 
indications, emanations, influences, call them what 
we will, signs of conscious life imperceptible to 
others. 

Evelard was the reverse of timid or superstitious, 
nevertheless his first feeling was of uneasiness, even 
dismay. No one had the shadow of a right to be 
there at such an hour. The intrusion was wholly 
unaccountable, suspicious, eerie. 

St. Gilles was the last corner of France, certes, 


158 


THE nOMANCE OF 


in which housebreakers might be dreaded. Folks 
boasted here of sleeping with doors unbolted. A 
humble country parsonage offered no prize to a 
professional footpad. His old servant, having locked 
the front door, had hidden the key as usual. Would 
the most cunning thief divine that it lay under one 
especial flower-pot of the tiny courtyard? The 
house communicated with the church, but Protes- 
tant churches in France are only left open during 
service. It was no more accessible from behind his 
garden adjoining the Carmelite convent. Could any 
premises be better protected? Were he possessed 
of millions he might safely leave his back doors 
unfastened. The walls of a cloistered house would 
defy Russian Nihilists or London burglars. 

He waited on the threshold, matchbox in hand, 
irresolute. Signs, subtle, yet unmistakable, an- 
nounced to his quick perceptions that he was not 
alone. Some one had found means to get into his 
house, and for what purpose, unless a nefarious 
one? 

The assurance was especially disquieting to one 
in his position. The parsonage stood completely 
isolated, save for its neighbour, the silent, unreach- 
able, fortress -like nunnery. 

And he had enemies, evil-wishers ; harm done to 
himself might quite possibly appear a meritorious 
action in the eyes of many. 

But away with thoughts so ungenerous, misgiv- 
ings so dastardly ! He was, of course, the victim of 
some wayside pilferer or lurching vagrant who had 
seen the hiding of the door-key and entered perhaps 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


169 


for no more desperate purpose than a raid on his 
larder. Italian hucksters and Bohemian pedlers 
probably tramped through this part of the country 
as any other, the light-fingered gentry who oblig- 
ingly mend your chairs and stew^ans for a plateful 
of broken victuals and slip a stray silver spoon into 
their pockets as part payment. 

On a sudden the front door blew to, retreat was 
no longer practicable. Striking a match, he lighted 
a hand-lamp and arming himself with a stout, 
knobbed stick, the only weapon he was possessed of, 
deliberately set out in search of the miscreant. First 
the little parlour was inspected, then the dining- 
room, then the kitchen. As he walked along slowly, 
he became aware of light, fiuttering, bird-like move- 
ments, as of a frightened captive seeking to hide 
itself. Had some poor hunted wretch, outcast of 
society, sought a refuge under his roof ? Or, might 
some timid, maimed animal have fled hither from 
its tormentors ? This seemed the likeliest clue to 
the mystery. 

He now laid down his stick and called out in a 
gentle, encouraging voice, “ Who is there ? ” 

Ho answer came, but he fancied he heard a little 
sigh, a low- drawn breath, half of suspense, half of 
relief, and again, there was a dragging, rustling 
sound as of living thing unable to use its limbs 
freely. 

“ Have no fear, come forward,” Evelard said, more 
encouragingly than before. Then he heard a 
woman’s voice, and there crawled forth from a dark 
recess of the kitchen a white, trembling figure, who 


160 


mE noMANCE or 


threw herself at his feet. The little lamp in Ere- 
lard’s hand gave feeble light, but he could not be 
mistaken. The white linen kerchief veiling the 
face almost after the manner of Moorish women ; 
the long, plain, shroud-like robe of dust-coloured 
serge ; the coarse, hempen girdle and crucifix told 
their own story. This suppliant kneeling before 
him was a cloistered Carmelite. “ Rise, my sister,” 
he cried, “ kneel not to man, but to God. Remem- 
ber where you are — no longer in the confessional, 
but before a Protestant pastor.” 

“Your voice is kind,” murmured the girl, half 
raising and drawing back ; she glanced at him, 
around her, with hands clasped above her forehead. 
“ You are the Protestant minister,” she went on. 
“ I felt it must be so. I could just see the church 
and parsonage roof from the convent windows, and 
I said to myself, ‘There I should find a sanctuary.’ 
Oh ! ” she cried with a suppressed wail, “ you will 
not give me up, you will help me ? ” 

Evelard was realizing his position little by little. 
He was asked to shelter a runaway nun ; he, in the 
eyes of the Catholic world, a base levanter, a per- 
jured renegade, was called upon to protect an apos- 
tate even more abject than himself ! Pity, conster- 
nation, an expression bordering on despair, were 
written on his face, but his resolution was quickly 
taken. Cost what it might he would do his 
duty. 

“ Tell me T am safe ; your home is as God’s house,” 
she said, again glancing round with the timid, star- 
tled look of a strayed bird. “ Hark ! Is it only the 


A FUENCB PAltSONAGE. 161 

wind beating against the panes, or footsteps in pur- 
suit ; the least sound makes me tremble.” 

“ Have no fear,” Evelard replied. “ Remember, 
it is only the criminal who can be torn from a man’s 
roof against his will.” 

“ Let me hold your hand. I- shall feel then that I 
am not dreaming, that I have mdeed a friend, and 
your voice is kind. It reminds me of one I loved in 

days gone by, when life was life indeed ” She 

crept nearer to him and would have knelt by his 
chair, so strong the habit of perpetual genuflexion, 
but he motioned her to a seat near him. For a few 
minutes her thin trembling Angers clasped his own. 
Side by side they sat in the dimly-lighted room 
without exchanging a word, each seeing visions. 
Her voice, in turn, had recalled the past, bringing 
back apparitions of girlish sweetness and beauty 
long since buried in the tomb. The spell of old 
memories became too strong for both. She wept 
quietly and he moved away, forcing himself to con- 
front realities. This unhappy girl must not stay 
here. Quick as lightning he thought of Georgette ; 
on that generous nature, that warm heart, he could 
implicitly rely. He began to see an escape from his 
dilemma. 

“ Listen, m.y sister,” he began, moved to deepest, 
almost tenderest compassion. “There is a lady 
living near, my best, nearest friend ; she will, I am 
sure, act a sisterly part towards you. Tinder her 
roof you would enjoy greater security than under 
my own. I have neither wife nor children, my old 
woman- servant who comes daily from the village, 
11 


162 


THE ttOMANCE OF 


would babble if you stay here, your hiding-place is 
sure to be discovered.” 

“ Do with me as you will, I trust in you as in God 
Himself,” was the answer. Then the speaker added 
in a tone of humblest apology, — “ The night is dark, 
and I daresay you can lend me a * mackintosh 
and hood to cover my white robes. Will you 
mind if I walk very slowly ? I hurt my foot in 
escaping.” 

Evelard had already bethought himself of his 
housekeeper’s black-hooded cloak hanging outside. 
That day, on account of the rain, he had fortunately 
lent her a waterproof of his own. But as the stranger 
rose to put it on he saw that she limped painfully. 
And the cross-road to the chateau, the only one that 
offered security from observation, was rugged. No, 
the project must be given up. He thought and 
thought. 

It is the custom in out-of-the-way Protestant com- 
munities for the pastor to receive deacons, evan- 
gelists, or fellow-ministers, whenever any happen to 
be travelling that way. As only short notices are 
given of these arrivants, a bedroom is always re- 
served in readiness, and such hospitality is counted 
upon. Evelard had lately placed a camp bed in his 
so-called study, that little chamber under the roof 
approached by a secret staircase. Should a col- 
league arrive unexpectedly he would surrender his 
own room below, himself occupying the hiding-place 
of hunted-down predecessors. 

“ My sister,” he now said kindly, “ lame and weary 
as you are, I will not cast you out on such a night. 


A FitEisrcB pahsokage. 


163 


I will at once go to this lady and arrange with her 
for your departure to-morrow ; the matter requires 
caution. Meantime do, you in all security, eat, drink, 
and sleep. There is food ready placed,” he said, 
pointing to the supper table in the dining-room 
opposite, “ and there,” he now disclosed the little 
staircase built in the wall, “ you will find a bed to lie 
on. Take this little lamp, and as soon as you have 
supped, fasten this door securely behind you. There 
is absolutely nothing to fear.” 

“Will you be gone very long ? ” she asked. 

He started ; every syllable of that sweet, tremulous 
voice seemed to unnerve him utterly. 

“An hour at most. When you hear the door 
opened and my tread in the corridor, do not be afraid. 
No one can get into the house but myself. And,” he 
said as he glanced at the dark narrow stair built in 
the wall, “ your former prison was not safer than the 
new.” A bitter smile now rose to his lips. “ Believe 
me, you will be left in peace. Henceforth you are 
dead to those you have just left behind, as you died 
in years gone by to kith and kin.” 

“You — a Protestant pastor — imderstand these 
things ? ” 

Again Evelard fell as in a dream. The look of 
appeal, the pleading voice, the very attitude of the 
speaker belonged to the past, to another. Murmur- 
ing a vague reply he closed the door behind him, 
once more confronting the storm. 

The night was pitch dark, and the wind raged 
with redoubled violence ; plashes of rain dashed in 
his face as he plodded on, Georgette’s image affording 


164 


THE noMANGE OE 


comfort and hope. Wise she was not, prudent she 
could hardly he called, but at her doors, as he well 
knew, sorrow and misfortune had never knocked in 
vain. The lights of the chateau, usually illuminating 
this corner of the forest-girt bay, were not visible to- 
night, but the thought of the welcome awaiting him, 
the cheerful, well-lit room, the gracious, benignant 
figure presidmg there, warmed his heart, consoled and 
uplifted in the midst of anxiety and depression. 
Yet his thoughts returned to the pale, trembling 
girl left behind ; he felt overcome with ^ shame 
and contrition. That white-robed, kneeling figure, 
seemed to rise as a spectre between himself and his 
betrothed, deprecating this most unequal compact on 
the one hand, devotion and self-sacrifice that knew 
no bounds on the other, a shipwrecked existence, an 
embittered nature, a mere aftermath of affection. 

In such a mood of alternating congratulation and 
humility, he reached the lodge gates. What had 
happened? hTot a light shone in the broad, many- 
windowed fa9ade ; he rang twice, thrice, without 
attracting notice. At last he heard slow, shuffling 
footsteps, and the house door was opened an inch, 
with the abrupt inquiry, — 

“ Who may you be, pray, at this unearthly hour ? ” 

“ Pardon, friend, it is I, Pastor Evelard. I should 
not have come so late, but I particularly wish to see 
Madame Delinon.” 

“A thousand excuses, Mr. Pastor; come inside, 
I beg. My wife and I are no longer as young as we 
once were, and we are always abed betimes when we 
get a chance. Madame, with Monsieur Jeunet and 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


165 


the young ladies, started for Paris this afternoon, 
and will not return for several days. A note was 
sent to the Parsonage, I feel sure ! ” 

E velar d thanked the good man, and turned away 
with a sinkmg of the heart. Who could help him 
now ? 


166 


TEE BOMANCE OF 




CHAPTER XX. 

TO THE RESCUE. 

Evelard returned to his hushed, dark home in a 
state of mind bordering on desperation. Nothing 
could have happened more calculated to discredit him 
in popular esteem and render his position as pastor 
here untenable. So fraught with peril the dilemma 
in which he now found himself, so irremediable the 
harm already elfected, that it seemed as if malevolent 
scheming and no mere accident, were here at work. 
But such a thought was not to be harboured for a 
moment, his mind dwelt rather on the inscrutable 
mysteriousness of destiny, the retributive work of 
change and chance, bringing a man suddenly face to 
face with his one false step, his unforgotten, unfor- 
given lapse. The fugitive now under his roof was 
the ghost of a bitter sweet past. He had loved when 
to love was a crime. In the white, trembling figure 
lately at his feet, it was as if he saw no mere 
stranger fieeing to his hearth as a sanctuary, but Ber- 
trande’s self, the exquisite vision of her whose love 
had been so bitterly expiated. For her sake he must 
shield and befriend this victim of outworn creeds 
and revolting fanaticism. For her sake he must 
patiently endure whatever these services might cost 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 167 

him. Had she not suffered ignominous, long drawn 
out martyrdom on his account, solitude, fastings, 
macAation, every imaginable form of mental and 
bodily privation ? Was he to shrink from ordeals of 
other kind, evil repute, slander, perhaps persecution ? 
Come dark days of opprobrium and the looking as- 
kance of new friends and supporters. Come penury, 
disgrace, exile, he would obey the dictates of con- 
. science and Christian charity ! 

As he pondered on these eventualities, the future 
growing gloomier and more portentous with every 
glance forward, the prayer of another apostate from 
Rome rose to his lips. In his present mood, Lamen- 
nais seemed nearer to him than the divine Nazarene ; 
the wonderful, one is tempted to say, superhuman 
utterances of the Paroles cVim Croyant met his case 
even better than the Sermon on the Mount. Every 
word of this little book, perhaps more akin to 
Scripture than any piece of writing ever penned, was 
familiar to him. From the depth of his desolation 
now rose the appeal, — 

“ Lord, we cry unto Thee. We cry unto Thee as 
one, who at nightfall encounters a hideous spectre by- 
the graveyard.” 

Was not his life just then as a charnel-house from 
which a wraith had arisen, filling his soul with 
bitter remorse ? 

He knew his country people well. The French 
mind, too forgiving in most respects, is implacable 
concerning one. Whilst hardened criminals oft- 
times go unpunished, the innocent cause of a public 
scandal is regarded as a public enemy. That a 


168 


THE ROMANCE OF 


minister of the Reformed religion, one moreovei 
with antecedents such as his, should place himself 
in direct antagonism to his Catholic brethren, ^fould 
appear more than a blunder to his own congregation. 
That he should connive at the escape of a cloistered 
nun would be regarded as nothing short of a grave 
offence. 

Old folks could hardly recall the days when 
Catholics and Protestants had lived at open variance, 
but even in this more enlightened time, great circum- 
spection was necessary on both sides. Jealousies 
were apt to arise, differences of opinion still brought 
about disagreeable conflicts. Whichever way 
Evelard turned he foresaw painful imbroglio and 
complication. 

Next morning on throwing open the shutters, 
glorious sunshine greeted him. The storm was 
spent, and in the clear, brilliant atmosphere, the ex- 
tent of its devastations could be accurately measured. 
Here veteran trees had been uprooted, there low- 
lying pastures flooded on every side were evidence 
of havoc and destruction. Glancing to ward the con- 
vent, he now saw that the full force of the hurricane 
had been felt on this higher, more exposed site.. The 
bell gable was unroofed, tiles were blown from the 
main roof, workmen were already busy repairing 
damages here and there. What had happened 
nearer home explained the fugitive’s escape. A 
huge sea pine, almost denuded of branch and foliage, 
had been hurled against the party wall, crushing in 
a portion. It would be comparatively easy for any 
lightfooted, active person, especially in desperate 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


169 


case, to scramble to the summit of the broken piled- 
up masses. The height of the wall being thus re- 
dueedy a leap might be taken, not without risk of 
injury, but certainly without hazard of life. The 
unhappy girl had evidently availed herself of these 
chances, thus affording a clue to her hiding-place ! 
Most likely the authorities of the convent had al- 
ready made up their minds as to her whereabouts. 

It was not in Evelard’s nature to lay deep schemes 
or work after underhand fashion, even in a good 
• cause. Whatever he did must be done openly and 
without shame. He at once and without a moment’s 
hesitation decided upon the course to pursue. From 
that moment, until Georgette’s return, his house was 
a citadel, neither to be taken by force nor stratagem. 
He should not attempt to spirit away his charge in 
cunningly devised disguise to some out of the way 
spot. He should not seek to conceal the truth, he 
should simply and in an unflinching spirit, vindicate 
the sacred right of asylum. 

There were grave difiiculties to contend with. 
That morning he was compelled to perform burial- 
service some miles off in place of an absent pastor, 
in the evening he was to give his second discourse 
at La Roche St. Georges ; who meantime would take 
his place? Whom could he trust in this emer- 
gency? 

His heart almost leaped as he caught sight of 
Bourgeois’ ungainly figure at the little front gate, 
and remembered that the young pastor had come for 
his lesson. How he congratulated himself now that 
he had not allowed prejudice to get the better of 


170 


THE ROMANCE OF 


neighbourly duty ? Bourgeois to-day wore the look 
of his good genius. 

“ My housewife will be here in a few minutes. 
She usually serves coffee at eight o’clock,” he said, 
“ hut before we proceed to breakfast or business I 
have something to communicate.” 

He showed his visitor into the little salon, threw 
wide the shutter, a7id whilst the over -heated pedes- 
trian loosened his necktie, wiped his brow and 
fanned himself with a newspaper, perused him nar- 
rowly. Yes, vain as he was, self -inflated as he was. 
Bourgeois could be trusted ! This sturdy peasant, 
anxious not only to become a scholar and a gentle- 
man, but a shilling light in the theological world, 
possessed the invaluable quality of tenacity. In the 
days of persecution, he would almost jauntily have 
confronted martyrdom. 

“ I was ungracious, nay, harsh to you on your flrst 
visit,” Evelard began. “ You have now the oppor- 
tunity of taking noble revenge. You can render me 
signal service.” 

Up jumped Bourgeois in a moment. Before the 
other could resist, two herculean arms were flung 
around him, moustachoed lips were pressed against 
his cheek ; in that boisterous embrace Evelard 
struggled helplessly as the victim of an aggressive 
bear. 

“ My dear brother, my beloved friend, my revered 
master, only speak the word and I am at your ser- 
vice for the rest of my days.” 

“You are too good ” 

“ Do not dwell on it, do not so much as allude to 


A FEENCR PARSONAGE. 


171 


it. Am I not already the most beholden of men, 
owing to none other my power over the conditional 
mood, my mastery of the past participle, and the 
noble fields of philosophy and elocution ? Have you 
not been the second Socrates of an ardent young 
Plato, as the ocean waves to a humble Demosthenes, 
teaching me how to discriminate between the real 
and the ideal,- how to train the vocal chord ? Hear 
me for one moment, let me show you how I delivered 
myself of last Sunday’s peroration ” 

He rose to his feet, cleared his throat, stretched 
out his arms and began : — 

“And now, dear brethren and sisters in the 
faith- — ” 

Evelard touched his arm gently, unable to resist 
a smile. “ You shall rehearse later. The matter I 
mentioned just now is grave and pressing. Are you 
prepared to stand by a colleague in a most painful 
dilemma ? ” 

“ My dear sir, what are you dreaming of ? A 
mere dilemma, forsooth ! I would follow you with- 
out a second thought, here is my hand upon it, to 
prison, to Cayenne, to the gibbet or the stake ! ” 

Evelard smiled grimly ; perhaps these ordeals, he 
refiected, were more tolerable than certain moral 
martyrdoms witnessed in our own days. 

“ Nay, I am not asking so much of you; although, 
I confess it, asking no bagatelle.” 

He watched his companion’s face to read the effect 
of his words, closed the door, and, glancing towards 
the convent, added, — 

“ An unhappy girl contrived to escape from yon- 


172 


THE nOMANGE OF 


der prison last night. She fled hither for protection, 
is at this moment under my roof.” 

Bourgeois did not look greatly concerned at this 
disclosure. He gave a loud whistle, made a grim- 
ance, and with hands impocketed, his long legs 
stretched at ease, listened for more. 

“You doubtless know enough of the cloistered 
system to understand my own feelings on the sub- 
ject. My mind is, of course, made up. The victim 
of self-delusion on the one hand, of sla^dsh supersti- 
tion and unblushing cupidity on the other, is as safe 
here as if she were on the opposite side of the 
Atlantic.” 

Again the young pastor whistled, this time with 
more animation and signiflcance. 

“ Ah, ha ! you foresee a scrimmage ; there will he 
a tussle? I begin to feel interested. The author- 
ities yonder will try to recover the young lady ! ” 

“ By sheer force they cannot do so. The law is 
explicit on that point. But we may be sure that 
every other available means will be tried ; reproaches, 
threats, intimidation, and the like. Now I am de- 
termined that whilst the fugitive is under my roof 
her would-be captors shall have no opportunity of 
communicating with her. As soon as Madame De- 
linon returns, my charge will be transferred to her 
care. Till then, may I count on you ? ” 

Bourgeois rose to his feet and pirouetted round 
the room, chuckling to himself. Anally laughing im- 
moderately. For the life of him he could not com- 
prehend Evelard’s harassed looks, and serious way 
of looking at the affair. 


A FREKCH PARSONAGE. 


173 


I understand, you want me to guard your door 
during your absence, as Horatius guarded the bridge 
^you remember the story came into our first Latin 
lesson? My dear friend, make your mind easy. 
You have lighted upon the very man — a Horatius, 
and no mistake ! Absent yourself for a week if you 
choose. Not a Romanist, were it the Papal Nuncio 
himself, shall cross your threshold. I assure you 
no task could be more to my taste.” 

“My old woman servant must of course learn 
what has happened ; she will minister to the wants 
of this poor girl, serve her food m her chamber, and 
so on. But Marie Louise is discreet, and, morever, 
she cannot noise the matter abroad, for I shall insist 
upon her remaining here till Madame Delinon’s 
return. Unfortunately, I have two engagements to- 
day. Your business then will be to see that no one 
enters the house. So far, I believe we understand 
each other perfectly ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ Then suppose we proceed to lessons. Let me 
see ; we were engaged last Saturday, I believe, in 
dealing with the syntax of the adverb. We will 
now take the preposition in hand.” 

Whilst the pupil, with the exhilaration of a school- 
boy promised an otter hunt, thought of the encoun- 
ters possibly awaiting him, his master plunged into 
grammar, delighted for a while to lose grasp of actu- 
alities. This absorption in a subject which must 
have been familiar to triteness puzzled the somewhat 
absent-minded disciple. Yet in such habits of con- 
centration might not be found the key to all intellec- 


174 


THE UOMANCE of 


tual achievement ? No mere lesson in accidence or 
prosody was here, but the exercise of the most valu- 
able faculty a thinking being can posess, that of sud- 
denly transporting himself into the mental atmos- 
phere of another, quitting for the time being his own 
inner self, individuality, cosmos, call it what we will, 
almost as completely as if he had cast off his corpo- 
real self. 

• The gulf, moreover, separating raw educated from 
ripe scholar is never more apparent than when they 
take in hand the study of words. 

For what are these ? To the first, things concrete, 
prosaic, unsuggestive as the clothes he wears; to 
the last, each in itself, a parable, a saga, a history 
informed with life and poetry, integral part of the 
immense epoch of humanity. 


A FBENCH PABSOJ^AGE, 


175 


CHAPTER XXI. 

flow HORATIUS KEPT THE BRIDGE. 

It was with indescribable exuberance that Bour- 
geois entered upon his office. Xot the Paladin Rin- 
aldo unsheathing Fusberta before Paris, not the 
Knight of La Mancha charging the windmills, glowed 
with more martial ardour than the young pastor as 
he prepared for the fray. Xow, indeed, was he to 
have an opportunity of displaying his mental prow- 
ess. Here was a golden opportunity of proving him- 
self more than a match for the wiliest Jesuit going. 
This doughty championship of a poor, broken- spirited 
girl would be at the same time a daring battle for 
Martin Luther and the right of free inquiry, and a 
protestation against the Pope, infallibility, and the 
worship of graven images. With what immense 
delight did he inwardly gird his loins and buckle on 
his armour ! Well, he was ready. The sooner the 
foe appeared the better. 

Parsing, chronology, Cornelius Xepos seemed 
terribly uninteresting that morning. He sat down 
to his appointed task without zest or spontaneity. 
As the snail-like minutes dragged on, he left off 
work, paused, watched, listened ; then, for the twen- 
tieth time, he rose and inspected bars and bolts back 


176 


THE BOMANCE OP 


and front, assuring himself that not even an inquisi- 
tive mouse could creep into the house unnoticed, 
much less a human being. 

The place was very silent, only the movements of 
the old woman m the kitchen broke the stillness. 
Once or twice an upper door was opened and he 
heard the sound of a girl’s sweet, frightened, pathe- 
tic voice — 

“ Thank you ; may Heaven bless you ! Oh, how 
kind, how motherlike you are ! ” reiterated the fugi- 
tive ; then the door was closed, the housewife shuf- 
fled downstairs, and all became quiet as before. 

Bourgeois soon found concentration impossible. 
For the life of him he could not apply himself to 
study any longer. Evelard would understand, would 
accept excuse. He must again rehearse his coming 
part ; in such emergencies a man was never too well 
prepared. 

He reseated himself in an easy-chair, threw back 
his head, thrust his hands in his pockets, stretched 
out his long limbs, and with closed eyes imagined 
one passage of arms after another, himself emerging 
gloriously from each encounter. 

First of all, some homely lay-sister would be sure 
to present herself, florid of complexion, coarse of 
feature, rustic of speech ; outwardly, artlessness it- 
self ; in reality, crafty as Macchiavelli ; on one arm 
she carried a basket of ripe flgs and apples. “ Might 
she offer these to her beloved sister as a parting gift ; 
bestow on her cheek a farewell kiss ? Could a min- 
ister of religion, full too, as she felt sure he was, of the 
milk of human kindness, refuse so small a favour ? No 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


177 


business of hers, forsooth, the whys and wherefores 
of a nun’s running away ; her own humble part in this 
religious house was to cook, scrub, and sew, not to 
meddle or make with matters that did not concern 
her. But she loved this dear creature now lost to 
her friends and companions forever. It would break 
her heart to be sent away as she had come.” With 
loud sobs and reiterations of the fugitive’s name, the 
young pastor imagined her lingering on the thresh- 
old, only to be dismissed at last after a thrice-repeated, 
thundering “ No ! ” 

Next he should have to deal with the Mother 
Superior ; and now the combatant mentally girded 
his loins and buckled on his armour tighter than 
ever. Here would be a test of his capacities and no 
mistake. Most men, he felt sure of it, were the 
choice placed before them, would a thousand times 
sooner confront the Tempter himself than a Mother 
Superior under such circumstances. 

But let her come on boldly ! He was her man. 
Chuckling to himself, he now rehearsed the second 
act in the little drama. He saw himself cautiously 
opening the door to one of those elderly, aristocratic 
ascetes, who by force of inflexible will attain the 
seat of authority in these female autocracies. Such 
women have a presence stern and forbidding as those 
of the Fates in heathen mythology. He should very 
likely quake in his shoes, whilst maintaining a front 
dauntless as a lion. 

By way of better preparing himself for the terrible 
scene, he mimicked his adversary’s words and ges- 
tures. With thin lips compressed and basilisk glance 
12 


178 


THE BOMANCE OE 


she would assert her claims, appealing to his sense 
of filial duty, his respect for the closest, most sacred 
ties, the most solemn obligations any human being 
can contract. Was she not in the eyes of Heaven 
mother of this undutiful daughter ? Who else had 
so good a right to learn from her own lips the reason 
of such shameful defection ? And, let the pastor 
mark the words, were her right disputed now she 
would find means to enforce it later. 

All this time Pastor Bourgeois imagined himself 
simulating the wisdom of the serpent and the soft- 
ness of the dove. 

He was very sorry, would be his answer ; he deeply 
regretted his inability to oblige so distinguished a 
lady ; into particulars, unfortunately he could not en- 
ter, but it was wholly out of his power to grant her 
request. She must accept a thousand apologies — and 
an abrupt good- morning ! 

The lay- sister and Mother Superior being thus 
satisfactorily disposed of, there remained the final 
and most redoubtable set-to, which would be at once 
the palmary proof of his powers and the crowning 
triumph of the day. 

Who should of course come next but the priest 
attached to the convent, the sentinel of the girl’s con- 
science, in other words, her confessor ? 

How Pastor Bourgeois owned that he could more 
readily encounter a do;zen women, were each an 
abbess, than a single theologian. 

He was not well versed in the attitude of the Code 
Civil towards conventual institutions. He felt quite 
unable to argue the cause of secular against ecclesias- 


A FUENCn PARSONAGF. 179 

tical authority. He had no clear ideas as to the 
legality of Evelard’s action or his own. 

These confessors, on the other hand, were deep 
men, skilled in this kind of fencing, apt at trippmg 
up the wariest adversary, crammed with sophisms 
to the finger-tips. 

Such refiections did not in the least abate his self- 
confidence or daunt his ardour. One course and one 
only, lay open before him. He must listen without 
once opening his own lips. And he must hear as 
little as possible. The intruder should be cut short, 
and politely, but firmly showed the gate. If he re- 
fused to go, if he attempted to force an entrance, — 

“ Whew ! ” whistled the young man, complacently 
surveying his own muscular limbs, “ the attempt will 
not be made twice anyhow.” 

The thought had hardly crossed his mind when 
he did indeed hear a low, insinuating, Jesuitical 
knock at the front door. Quick as lightning he 
flew to the window and peered through the Vene- 
tian blinds. His prognostics had come true then ? 
The cart had come before the horse, certainly ; that 
is to say, the confessor had preceded both lay-sister 
and Mother Superior, the supreme trial of strength 
was at hand. 

He could not be mistaken. The black-garmented 
figure just glanced at in the noonday glare, was un- 
doubtedly that of a priest. Bourgeois also saw a 
white clerical handkerchief passed over a tonsured 
head. The good man has heated himself in his 
walk, he thought. He will be hotter still \7hen he 
goes away ! 


180 


THE BOMANCE OF 


The sturdy henchman, feeling that great circum- 
spection was necessary, now walked deliberately to 
the door, and squaring himself, held it open, barring 
entrance with one arm. 

What was his astonishment and disgust when 
the black figure and tonsured head ducked low, the 
aggressor not deigning to proffer a word as he forced 
a passage ! The cool effrontery of such conduct 
roused Bourgeois’s ire, but did not take away his 
presence of mind. The intrusion must be checked, 
swiftly and effectually. Without a second thought, 
in the twinkling of an eye, the offender was caught 
in his herculean grip, the door was thrust wide, and 
as quickly closed. Bourgeois breathed freely once 
more ; he was safe and alone ! 

“ Confound that fellow’s impudence ! ” he said, as 
he wiped the perspiration from his brow. “But 
he won’t give us any more trouble. That is one 
comfort.” 

A tap on the window-pane made him look up — 
there, could he believe his eyes, stood no stranger 
but Evelard himself ! What piece of folly had he 
committed ? 

“ You are not the first to mistake an honest man 
for a thief,” said his host smiling. “ But now that 
you are convinced of your mistake, please let me in.” 

“My dear sir, a thousand apologies.” 

“ None are needed,” was the suave reply. “ Only 
an inch of diachylon, for you gave me a nasty scratch 
or two. Well, what has happened during my ab- 
sence ? Something startling I should suppose from 
your warm reception.” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


181 


“Nothing; not a soul has been to the house,” 
Bourgeois replied, with a crestfallen air. 

“ Why, so much the better. When I have made 
myself presentable we will sit down to table.” 

Throughout the rest of the day all remained calm 
alike without and within. The two men could see 
masons busily repairing the breach made in the con- 
vent wall, the woodman’s axe was heard by the 
fallen tree, on the main roof plumbers were replacing 
broken tiles. Every trace of the storm was being 
fast obliterated. From time to time the tinkle of 
the chapel bell reached their ears; at the usual 
hour the outer gates, thrown wide, invited passers- 
by to worship as before. A lay- sister, according to 
daily routine, tripped to the village for marketings. 
The father confessor paid his matutinal visit to the 
superior’s parlour. That was all. No sign was 
there of excitement or perturbation, nothing to sug- 
gest an extraordinary occurrence to the world. 

Did this unruffled surface betoken indifference or 
neutrality; might it rather indicate the unnatural 
stillness often heralding a storm ? Nature, too, was 
in her peacefullest, most dreamy mood. Windless 
now the cool grey sea and circling woods, not a tiny 
tassel of the tamari.sk stirred, even the aspen seemed 
changed into its silvery semblance, so motionless its 
leaves to-day. 

A wondrous transformation had taken place with- 
in the last twenty-four hours, the dazzling South, 
with her gold and purple was gone, not so much as 
the hem of her gorgeous vesture skirts visible ! In 
her stead, sat enthroned the grey-robed ungemmed 


182 


TEE ROMANCE OF 


North, for circlet, pale stars, from her zone dropping 
scentless, pensive-hued flowers. 

“Was his future symbolized here?” asked Eve- 
lard. After the brilliant summer and tremendous 
tempest of his own career, were peace and colour- 
less contentment, with vesper charm in store for 
him? 

His frame of mind was not hopeful. These cruel 
ordeals would be passed through and forgotten, but 
what should now have afforded gladdest consolation 
and looking forward, fllled him with uneasiness and 
dismay. Was he worthy, could he ever render him- 
self worthy of Georgette’s generous, self-sacriflcing 
affection ? 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 


183 


CHAPTER XXII. 

PHANTASMS. 

‘‘ The Sister would like to speak to you, Mr. Pastor, 
if you please,” said the ancient Huguenot woman, as 
Evelard re-entered the house that evening. He had 
come home almost in a frame of mind bordering 
on exhilaration. His little audience had showed so 
much interest and intelligence, his meaning seemed 
so thoroughly grasped, that he could but congratulate 
himself. To proselytise, in the ordinary acceptance 
of the word, was the last thing thought of when 
entering upon his charge ; to give direct answers to 
direct questions was wholly another matter. Xo one 
could reasonably blame him for telling his neighbours 
what they wanted to know, namely — wherein con- 
sisted the exact difference between Romanism and 
the Reformed Faith ? He began to realize that these 
village conferences might have weighty results. 
More than one inquirer after Truth might, like him- 
self, find mental satisfaction and spiritual repose. 

His housekeeper’s speech brought ba;ck painful 
realities. He had almost forgotten the incident of 
the night before, and now it looked more ominous 
than eyer, What if a mere act of charity should 


184 


THE BOMANCE OF 


undo all his efforts at pastoral usefulness ? What if 
his action in this matter should prove his ruin ? 

‘‘ Let the Sister come to me, by all means,” he re- 
plied, wearily putting off hat and overcoat. On a 
sofa, in the little salon adjoining, lay Bourgeois sound 
asleep. The good-natured fellow, not for a single 
moment deserting his post hitherto, had at last suc- 
cumbed to drowsiness on the improvised couch pre- 
pared for him, return at that hour being out of the 
question. The day had been so terribly long, so 
monotonous ! and nothing of course was in the least 
likely to happen now. He breathed heavily, the 
whole house echoed with the music of the nose. 
Sleeping accommodation had been provided for the 
old charwoman in an upper room. Evelard’s quiet 
parsonage was turned into a camp ! 

A single lamp under a green shade burned on the 
table; in that subdued greenish light the pallid, 
white-robed figure of the Carmelite wore almost a 
spectral look. Her movements, too, as she glided, 
fiuttered, crept, suggested a phantasmal world rather 
than that of breathing fiesh and blood. To Evelard’s 
overwrought imagination it was as if he held converse 
with a spirit disinterred, the ghost of one whose 
image was graven on his heart. 

“ Speak without fear, my sister,” he said, anxious 
to break the spell. “ You are, as you well know, 
among friends. What is it that you now wish to 
communicate ? ” The girl had again dropped on her 
knees beside his chair, the habit of perpetual ador- . 
ation still clinging to her. With hands clasped over 
her eyes, she seemed about to make some painful con- 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 185 

fession. At the sound of his voice, she sprang to 
her feet, listening and trembling. 

“ Oh ! speak once more. I am soothed, comforted, 
strengthened as I listen,” she cried, greatly agitated. 
« I have suffered so much, your voice makes me for- 
get everything, everything but the joy and the love 
that were once mine ” 

“ Calm yourself, my poor girl. Pour out your 
heart to me,” Evelard replied, in his turn much moved. 
“You are young, life may yet smile on you; you 
may serve God in a better, to Him more acceptable, 
way.” 

“I had faith once. Prayer was rapture to me, 
meditation on heavenly things ecstasy, penance and 
self-sacrifice seemed to bring me nearer to Christ. 
But a time came suddenly, almost as a revelation it 
appeared to me, when my eyes were opened ; there 
were the bright blue heavens, the spring fiowers, the 
happy birds. We could not shut these out of our 
prison, and they spoke to my heart of a better 
religion. I believed, I realized ; I that privation 
for mere privation’s sake, abnegation of natural feel- 
ing and self-inflicted torture, in reality separate us 
from God, the good God whose gospel to all the 
world is Nature, whose best gift to all creatures is 
the gift of loving each other ! How could I stay in 
the convent when it had become as a charnel-house, 
a living tomb? Unhappy as I was I could not die.” 

She broke off, paused for a moment, then added 
eagerly,— 

“ How could I foresee that my self-sacrifice was 
to end in bitterest disillusion, that fancying I had 


186 


THE BOMANCE OF 


done all things for God, I should wake up one day to 
find that I had done nothing, worse than nothing ? 
And with what confidence and secret triumph 1 
entered upon my novitiate, passed through the neces- 
sary probation, took final vows ! I never doubted then 
in my calling ! And perhaps had there existed any 
outlet for human sympathy within the convent walls, 
had I been allowed to love and cherish any one, any 
living, breathmg creature, I might have borne exist- 
ence there always. I could have loved God in lov- 
ing a child, a dog, a bird, even ! but in trying to love 
Him only I found myself alone.” 

“ What induced you to enter the cloister, my 
sister ? ” asked Evelard pityingly. 

“ Father — forgive me, sir — I fancy myself in the 
confessional. I forget that I am talking to a 
Protestant pastor — do not ask me now ; some other 
time I will tell you. I have grievously sinned; I 
sought to expiate my sin. Amd have I not done so ? 
Youth, friends, fortune, all these I have offered 
up by way of atonement. What will become of 
me now, the apostate, the accursed one? All is 
dark.” 

“ Others have trodden a path equally rough and 
thorny,” the pastor replied, thinking of Jennet’s case 
and his own. “ You will meet with kindness, never 
fear. Your life may yet be cheerful, useful, even 
happy. In a few days, perhaps to-morrow, you will 
be under the roof of the lady I mentioned ; she will, 
I am sure, act the part of a sister to you.” 

The girl pondered, then got out very timidly ; — 

“The convent is very near, my fiight was of 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 187 

course discovered long ago ; am I quite, quite safe 
here ? That is what I wanted to ask you.” 

“ As safe as if you were on the other side of the 
Atlantic, in Protestant England or free America. 
Have you not my word ? ” asked Evelard, with the 
consolatory reflection that at any rate she would 
never know what the promise might cost him. 

“ I Cannot thank you yet. I feel as if I were in a 
dream. Is it true ? ” she cried passionately, “ is it 
indeed I, my very self, sitting here, and you, you no 
apparition, but the village pastor ? I have strange 
thoughts in my mind. Not one part of my hfe only, 
but all seems unreal. It seems to me as if I must 
wake up either once niore a veiled nun within the 
cloister walls or right happy listening to you, my 
teacher, my oracle ; oh ! pardon,” she broke off, and 
burst into tears. “ I thought of a beloved friend, of 
the idol of my girlhood. Just so he allayed every 
fear always. For the moment he seemed to be 
sitting in your place.” 

Evelard too had become strangely unreal to 
himself. The present wore the semblance of a 
dream ; only the past seemed reality. He was no 
longer the pastor of this sea-board village, but a 
priest : once more at his old post in the confessional, 
a woman’s sweet, passionate, pathetic voice making 
him forget the minister of religion in the man. The 
white flgure beside him was no stranger^ it was 
Bertrande, his own Bertrande, risen from the tomb. 
Tears started to his eyes, he could not trust him- 
self to speak. 

You are sorry for me/’ she went on. “ Yoxi 


188 


THE ROMANCE OF 


perhaps have loved one now lost to you in the 
convent, a dear sister or friend ? ” 

“Who has not in this France of ours — thrice 
happy France but for her terrible superstitions?” 
he interrupted, almost fiercely. 

“ My story recalls her fate, the fate of the being 
you loved, now a veiled nun, that is why you are so 
sad?” 

“ Speak of yourself, my sister, I entreat you. Go 
on with your story.” 

“ First tell me — you are a Protestant, these things 
are different in your eyes — you do not hold me 
accursed for breaking my vows ? ” 

“ What am I that I should judge another in such 
a case — I, too, of all men ; but enough of myself, I 
will speak another time,” he sai.d, greatly agitated. 
“Enough for you to remember that you are not 
alone; others have done the same for conscience’ 
sake. I leave you in God’s hands.” 

“My faith gone, what else was left for me to 
do ? ” she continued. “ I tried to die, I sought death 
in many ways. Even death unlearns pity and mer- 
cifulness within the convent walls ! I first thought 
of the dispensary with its store of drugs. Could I 
only obtain by stealth some deadly soporific and fall 
asleep to wake no more ! The chance never came. 
Then I tried to hit upon other means. Oh, the 
temptations were horrible ! There was my hempen 
girdle: I might strangle myself whilst the sister 
who shared my cell slept. There was the knife — I 
secreted one once. I had no courage to draw it 
across my throat. And the topmost windows were 


A FBENCH PABSOKAGE. 


189 


securely barred ; no chance was given of throwing 
oneself down. Next my thoughts turned to escape : 
and shall I tell you what first inspired me with hope ? 
It was the sound of your bell, and the glimpse of 
your church. I could just discern the roof from my 
window, and I used to hear the bell summoning to 
service on Sunday morning. Light dawned upon my 
mind. I said to myself that a safe asylum was close 
at hand. Could I only reach the Protestant church 
I was free. No one would dare to force me from a 
sacred building. 

“ After hoping against hope, the storm offered a 
way. How fearful it was, and how I rejoiced in its 
fearfulness ! All day long the fierce hurricane raged, 
rain falling in torrents. Parts of the convent roof 
were completely unroofed, the upper storey being 
fiooded, and the basement .stood under water. 
Whilst the storm raged little could be done, but 
towards nightfall came a lull, and every one was told 
off to help. Some mopped up the water in the attics, 
others were busy downstairs. All was bustle and 
confusion. My task — perhaps because I loved activ- 
ity and hated inaction — was to keep solitary watch 
by a dead sister. The mortuary chamber upstairs 
could not be used, the tiles having been carried 
away by the wind, so the poor body was placed 
downstairs in a little room on the ground fioor. As 
I took up my post by the bed, the rain plashing in 
gusts against the panes and the wind surging among 
the trees, I saw at last means of escape. During the 
day a large pine tree had been dashed against the 
wall dividing the convent garden from your own, 


THE noMANCE OE 


190 

breaking in a portion. The chamber in which I kept 
watch was on the same side of the house, and as it 
communicated only with the Mother Superior’s pri- 
vate rooms, and was never used by the nuns, it had 
no barred window like the rest. It opened indeed 
on to the garden, the bay window being only bolted 
from within. The Mother Superior would often sit 
here in summer time watching us as we took exer- 
cise. At any other time too there would have been 
two guarding and praying by the dead, but to-night 
all the others were busy. And it surely never oc- 
curred to any one that I should dream of escaping 
amid such a storm — abandoning too, a solemn task. 
My poor sister ! Am I forgiven, think you, for leav- 
ing her alone ? But she had ceased to suffer ; neglect 
or unkindness could touch her no more. I knelt 
down, murmured a prayer for forgiveness, kissed her 
cold thin hand, and stole out into the darkness. I 
knew well where to find the broken wall. Quicker 
than I can recount it, I had clambered up and 
reached the other side.” 

She glanced around almost wildly, as if to assure 
herself that she was not dreaming, and added, — 

“Not a creature stirred, not a dog barked as I 
drew near ; your house was silent as the death- 
chamber I had just left behind. Into the church I 
could find no way, but the parsonage door was un- 
fastened — you also trusted to the convent wall for 
protection — so I crept inside and waited trembling.” 

Again she paused. 

“ ‘ Should I be kindly received ? ’ I asked myself as 
I listened for a footstep. ‘ Should I obtain shelter, 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 191 

kindness, protection ? ’ I could only hope, and when 
suspense ended ” 

She looked up with a pathetic aloofness in her 
eyes, as if glancing at a remote, beautiful past, whose 
light still shone on her, warmed her heart. 

“What did I find? No coldly pitying stranger, 
no unknown voice whose mildly reproving tones 
chilled, whilst they intended to encourage ; no 
stranger indeed, but the friend I had adored in days 
gone by, the teacher for whom reverence had seemed 
religion. Let me dream for a moment that it is 
really so ; let me hang upon your words as I used to 
hang upon his ” 

“ Sister,” the pastor said, unable to bear the scene 
any longer, “ others have these cruel illusions, these 
reminders of vanished joys. Be strong, wrestle 
bravely, shake them off. Remember,” he added 
solemnly, “ or now for the first time hear the words 
Christ spake — Let the dead bury their dead, do thou 
take up the cross and follow Me ! Could we support 
existence, much less fulfil our daily duties, were it 
otherwise, and our beloved lost ones ever with us? 
Is not every human heart a sepulchre, mine — Heaven 
help me ! — as well as yours, as the rest? Now go, 
calm yourself ; look forward, seek courage and 
strength in sleep.” 

He beckoned to the black-headed figure in the 
kitchen. The two women crept softly up the secret 
staircase ; soon the parsonage was silent save for the 
stentorian breathing of the sleeper on the sofa. 


192 


THE ROMANCE OF 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

AT BAY. 

Still Madame Delinon lingered in Paris, and still 
Evelard hesitated to recall her. He felt that she 
was already sacrificing too much for him, and that 
he had no right to interfere already with her plans 
and comfort, spoiling, perhaps, the last brief days of 
congenial distraction and freedom. Large-hearted, 
generous -natured as she was. Georgette belonged to 
the world, loved it — none knew better than him- 
self how well. Let her then revel in its delights 
whilst she might. Time enough for fireside happi- 
ness by-and-by. 

The narrowness of French Protestantism at times 
shook his faith in their future. For himself he had 
no misgivings. He was ready to make light of tri- 
fling humiliations and renunciation in small things. 
But the case of a spoiled darling of society, a beau- 
tiful woman of the world, was wholly different. 
Was she prepared to give up her former passions 
and idols, dress, fashion, amusement ? Did she at 
all realize the gulf separating daily life in Paris 
from daily life in a remote country parsonage ? 

Such questions recurred constantly, and were 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 193 

emphasized and magnified by every incident. Yet 
how sweet and soothing the thought of that large, 
all-embracing, unsparmg devotion ! How compari- 
tively easy were existence now with such a wife by 
his side. To Evelard, as to the majority of French- 
men, marriage wore a twofold aspect, it implied 
the closest ties, the most intimate friendship, the 
purest affection ; at the same time, it was a man’s 
surest, social Palladium, the guardian of his honour, 
the sentinel of his good name. In no other country 
of the world is wedlock invested with so much dig- 
nity and sacredness. The un wedded Frenchman is, 
no matter his sterling qualities, his intrinsic merit, 
his stainless character, ever handicapped in the race 
of life. 

Three, four, five days slipped by, still the chateau 
remained close shuttered, silent as before. At last 
Evelard determined to write. He would relate what 
had happened, asking her to come home for the 
poor fugitive’s sake. How could he screen her any 
longer ? How could he safely send her away ? To 
whom but his future wife could the compromising 
charge be entrusted ? 

Evelard possessed, in a large degree, the gift of 
reading men’s thoughts. Human nature was to 
him as an open book, that all who ran might read, 
none more artless perhaps than that now outspread 
before him. And he divined clearly enough what 
was passing in the minds of his congregation and 
neighbours. Every day occurred some circumstance 
calculated to enlighten him. 

Suspicion had fallen upon the right person, his 
13 


194 


THE BOMANCE OF 


secret was guessed. He was marked out as the har- 
bourer of the missing nun, the creator of a grave public 
scandal. An askance look here, a mistrustful greet- 
ing there, the averted face of one, the withheld hand 
of another, revealed the true state of affairs. An 
action in itself simple, Christianlike, justifiable, was 
exposing him to general suspicion and obloquy. 

On the sixth morning after the storm and the 
girl’s fiight, he was sitting down to write to Georg- 
ette, when sounds of tramping feet and men’s 
voices outside caused him to look up. Glancing 
towards the road he saw a little group of blue- 
bloused peasants approaching his front door. He 
immediately recognized the trio who had formed 
a deputation from La Roche St. George a few 
weeks back, the sententious white-haired mayor, 
the friendly, hesitating municipal councillor, his 
younger, fierier colleague ; with these were as many 
elders of his own church, the village magistrates of 
St. Gilles, hitherto his fast friends and supporters. 

As the party stood there, awaiting admittance, 
their errand hashed across Evelard’s mind. Here 
was a second deputation, but on more serious busi- 
ness even than the first. These hard-headed, 
straightforward, matter-of-fact farmers and sea- 
farers were come, not to ask the reason of the faith 
that was in him, or to consult on parochial affairs, 
but to repudiate his teaching and arraign his con- 
duct. 

In the bright, transparent light, against the bril- 
liant, clear-cut landscape, stood out the group with 
picturesque effect. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


195 


The stalwart figures in blue smockfrocks, their 
rich, sunburnt complexions and regular features, 
might have served a painter in search of national 
types. Behind and around lay the scenes of their 
daily toil, and homely, satisfying wealth ; sea smooth 
and shining as a bit of blue enamel, with here and 
there a dazzling white chaloupe breaking the azure ; 
above the shore hanging vineyards making patches 
of warm crimson and gold ; farther inland, the up- 
turned fallow and ever-verdant April-like meads. 
There was something exhilarating in such a picture 
and in its suggestiveness, but Evelard drew back 
with a sinking of the heart. 

These excellent citizens and irreproachable heads 
of families would never fail in national or local 
emergency ; they would stand together as one man, 
no matter creeds theological and political, should 
the Patrie call. Fraternal sentiment, discipline, pa- 
triotism might uncompromisingly be counted upon, 
but not sympathy with the traducer of custom, the 
trampler underfoot of accepted standards, the defier 
of public opinion. 

“ Enter, gentlemen,” Evelard said, affecting no cor- 
diality that he felt would to-day be unreciprocated, 
perhaps misunderstood, his pale, resolute face and 
calm, self-possessed manner strikingly contrasted 
with the heightening colour and halting speech of 
his visitors. 

It was evident that all felt their errand a painful 
one and wished it well over. 

They filed in, one by one, their heavy tramp and 
knob-sticks resoundmg through the hitherto silent 


196 


THE itOMANCE OE 


house. Evelard closed the door, handed each a chair 
and sat down fronting the party. 

Then followed an awkward, disagreeable pause. 
Evelard’s position resembled that of a bankrupt 
called upon for the first time to meet his creditors. 
Can any deeper, more crushing, more profound 
humiliation overtake an honourable-minded man ? A 
short time before he was one of a prosperous, self- 
respecting brotherhood, regarded by each member 
of the guild as a pillar of society, an integral portion 
of national solidity and well-being. . To-day, the 
cordial hand is held back, the friendly, confidential 
glance replaced by frowns of almost fierce suspicion 
and reproach. He who was recently trusted as a 
kinsman has betrayed honest, hard-working fellow- 
citizens and fathers of families, his own friends and 
neighbours. 

The ex-priest met the merciless, inquisitorial 
glances now riveted on him unfiinchingly. Whilst 
his stern arraigners fidgeted, cleared their throats, 
and interchanged significant looks, he sat motionless 
as a statue ; only an unwonted pallor and tiny, bead- 
like drops gathering to his forehead, betokened the 
intensity of the struggle within. 

The two iiriyors made signs to each other, then 
the head of Evelard’s own parish and congregation, 
the white-haired, Roman-featured elder, began : — 
“You have perhaps an inkling of the business we 
are come upon, Mr. Pastor ? ” 

“ I have,” was the quiet reply. 

“ Most likely you are not much suprised to receive 
a visi^ from these neighbours here and myself?” 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE, I97 

« I frankly admit that I am not,” Evelard made 
answer quietly and firmly as before. 

Again the two leaders looked at each other and 
the rest, meaningly, the speaker assuring himself of 
their approval, as he went on: “A grave scandal 
has been brought about in the commune of which I 
have the honour to be mayor,” he said, the occasion 
lending added dignity to rustic speech and manner ; 
all looked at the pastor fixedly as he continued, “ and 
grieved, ashamed am I to say it, if reports speak 
truly, by its minister ! ” 

Evelard met those hostile glances in silence and 
unmoved. 

“ Have you nothing to say to that charge, Mr. 
Pastor?” continued the old man, trembling with 
suppressed emotion. 

For a moment Evelard paused, then unshrink- 
ingly facing his accusers, one and all, he replied, — 

“ Nothing, Mr. Mayor; nothing, gentlemen.” 

“ But if you have nothing to say, we have,” the 
veteran rejoined, striking his stick on the ground. 
“ I, on behalf of my Protestant brethren, the mem- 
bers of your own congregation ; my colleague here, 
on behalf of his townsfolk, not Protestants like our- 
selves, but our good friends and neighbours for all 
that. Am I not putting the matter in its proper 
light, comrades ? ” 

“ Go on, go on,” cried the others impatiently. 

« If then, it is so, if it is indeed the pastor of this 
parish who is sowing seeds of discord between the 
Protestants and Catholics of these parts, who now 
sets at defiance the ordinances of the Romish Church 


198 


THE BOMANGE OF 


and the laws of the land, then, I say it to your 
face. Monsieur Evelard, the sooner he finds a more 
easy-going congregation, the better we shall be 
pleased.” 

“ The Mayor has the right on his side,” now put 
in the other white-haired veteran as he eyed his 
fellow -magistrates, “ and if it is so, all I can say is, — 
no offence to you and you, sir,” he added, nodding 
to the three Protestants sitting opposite, “ all I can 
say is, we will stay where we are — I mean m matters 
of doctrine — leastways, we will find another expo- 
nent of a religion which, regarded practically, might 
not suit us after all.” 

“ I have now heard you ; I in turn, ask to be 
heard,” Evelard said, at last breaking his icy reserve. 
“ Let us then reason out the question in a fair and 
temperate spirit.” 

“We do not wish to do anything else,” rejoined 
the Roman-featured veteran. “ Say on, brother 
Evelard.” 

“ Yes, yes, we are just men ; let the pastor speak 
out,” echoed the others. 

All were silent as statues. Evelard began : 
“ Granted that your assumptions are true, that I am 
the cause of this public scandal ; in other words, 
that I am sheltering an unfortunate girl, unable any 
longer to endure the terrible existence of a cloistered 
nun, — what, I ask, is the precise- nature of my of- 
fence? Let us define the position accurately. You 
spoke just now, Mr. Mayor, of the ordinances of the 
Romish Church, of the laws of the Jand. Is there 
not an authority high above these, as the stars are 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 


199 


above the earth — the authority of conscience? Are 
the ordinances of the Church, the laws of the land, 
of divine or human authority ? The fallibility of 
both is attested by every-day experience. Not a 
day passes but some once solemnly accorded oath is 
broken, some unjust statute is annulled. Is not 
even the marriage-vow now revocable by law ; and 
how many more once apparently stable institutions 
have yielded to a wider, more humanitarian view of 
human society and of legislature? A time will 
assuredly come, mark my word and it is not so very 
far off, when the cloistered convent with its horrible 
regime will no more be permitted in civilized coun- 
tries, than the burning of widows on the tomb of 
their husbands in Hindostan. An enthusiastic- 
spiritual- minded, perhaps sorrow- stricken girl, for 
instance, pledges herself in a blind moment avow- 
edly to perpetual self-abnegation and prayer ; in 
reality — I speak with authority — to an existence 
compared with which that of the malefactor in prison 
is soft and comfortable. No vain emblems or moni- 
tions, the death’s head and hideous skeleton on the 
convent walls, the funereal inscriptions that meet the 
eye everywhere ! But the cloistered house is not 
only a living tomb, it is a place in which the flesh is 
subjected to perpetual torture, the spirit to daily 
degradation, in which all that makes us human is 
elimmated, and all that makes God divine is par- 
odied.” 

“ The pastor is right there,” said the younger 
municipal coijnciilor of La Roche, slapping his knee; 
“ I am one with him so far.” 


200 


THE BOMANCE OF 


“Let US hear the pastor out,” interposed the 
others. “ Go on, sir.” 

“ This truth dawns upon the mind of the unhappy 
victim of self-delusion slowly, hut — ^unless, which is 
often the case, she dies a year or two after her incar- 
ceration — it surely dawns at last. Would you then 
have me send this poor girl hack to her prison, her 
gaolers? You have manly hearts, you are fathers 
and brothers, would you condemn a beloved daughter 
or sister to such a fate ? And which is the more 
conformable to the true spirit of Christianity — a 
life within the convent, deprived of faith, hope, char- 
ity, or a career of activity in the world, cheerful 
earning of daily bread, of usefulness to oneself, one’s 
brethren, one’s Creator ? ” There was a long pause : 
had he impressed his hearers ? He could not tell. 

The chief of the Cathohc deputation was the first 
to speak. He began cautiously, as if feeling his 
way, ^ 

“ All that the pastor says is well said ; we are 
agreed so far, neighbors, I am sure. But there are 
two ways of looking at the business ; so, anyhow, it 
appears to me. I don’t say that I approve of clois- 
tered houses or that I do not ; what I say is this, a 
girl enters upon the vocation with her eyes open, 
and we are bound to look at the practical side, with 
a dowry ! ” 

His colleagues nodded approvingly. 

“ How, speaking as a father, I can’t feel that I should 
be inclined to dower my daughter twice, or to receive 
her, a runaway, into my house, thus bringing shame 
on me and mine. Nor should I hold it right if others 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


201 


stood between her and the Church she had offended. 
Whilst things are as they are, Mr. Pastor, — ^bettered, 
no doubt, they might be — I say, and I think my 
friends here will agree with me, you are getting 
yourself into trouble about a bad cause.” 

Evelard’s reply seemed expected. None came, his 
pale face was as resolute as before. The white- 
haired elder of his own church now rose, hat and 
stick in hand, the others following his example. 

“ I take it then for granted we have your answer, 
sir ? ” asked the leader, as he stood face to the door. 

Evelard rose also, confronting the group : “ I am 
sorry,” he said, speaking slowly and without a touch 
of rancour. « It pains me that I can give no more 
satisfactory reply. But my mind is made up. Do 
with me as you will ; let this matter be the cause of 
my degradation and worldly ruin ; indict me before 
the consistory of Toulouse, expel me from the parish, 
from the ranks of the Church even, ignominiously 
as some unhappy deserter is drummed from the 
regiment which he has disgraced, I will bear all. 
To my heart, my conscience, my sense of Christian 
obligation, I will never consent to prove traitor. 
Your grandsires,” he said, addressing himself to the 
Protestant delegates, “ endured fire, sword, exile, 
death, for the Truth’s sake. Your Church also,” he 
added, turning to the Catholic deputation, “ is ce- 
mented with the blood of martyrs. You may blame 
and pity, you cannot despise a line of conduct you 
have been taught from childhood to revere. Nor 
shall I now suffer persecution and obloquy for the 
^’st time. Fellow citizens, you know my history. 


202 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Am I likely, think you, to be turned from my course 
by dread of any punishment the world can inflict ? ” 
He ceased, and his hearers, moved, impressed, but 
unconvinced, filed out gravely one by one. With a 
formal distant salutation, they made their exit ; 
only the last, the impetuous young municipal coun- 
cillor, stepped back, and, without a word, wrung 
the pastor’s hand. 

“ That is what I call a man, any tow,” he said to 
his companions, when the parsonage door had closed 
upon the group. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 


203 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

ILLUSION. 

Georgette was one of those women who appear to 
others the laziest in the world, whereas none in 
reality are more indefatigable. She never gave 
herself those intermittent spells of entire repose 
more pretentious workers look upon as their due. 
She never refused to do anything asked of her 
merely because time, leisure, much less inclination, 
were wanting. In the somewhat thankless cause 
of social duty so-called, promiscuous benevolence, 
and unreflecting philanthropy, she smilingly turned 
a treadmill from morning till night. 

Frenchwomen, exquisite as they often are to look 
at, to listen to, and to live with, are seldom actuated 
by the principle of abstract justice. Few, indeed, 
realize the meaning of the term. With Georgette, 
as with the majority of her countrywomen, a kind 
action, as a primrose to Peter Bell, meant a kind 
action and nothing more. She would unhesitatingly 
recommend a poor widow to a post of trust without 
in the least considering her fltness, and when the 
victimised employer came, with remonstrance, “ Oh, 
Madame Delinon ! Where did you find that piece 
of incapacity, incarnate, unpunctual, slatternly, ever 


204 


THE ROMANCE OF 


gossiping with her neighbours ? ” and so on, and so 
on, Georgette would smile one of her sweetest smiles 
with the palinode — “ She has six children ! ” 

To be unfortunate was, in her eyes, a positive 
virtue; if not entirely condoning, at least glossing 
over every downright fault or shortcoming. 

There was Jeunet’s novel, for instance, the novel, 
destined in its author’s eyes, to create a pretty com- 
motion. The question of its literary merits or 
suitability to this publisher or that never for a 
single second entered her head. Jeunet was her 
friend ; Jeunet had to support a wife, mother-in-law 
and child, by his wits. Could any editor be so 
churlish as to drive him to despair by a heart-break- 
ing “ No ”? 

So she carefully stowed away the opening chapters 
— the story was not nearly finished, nor likely to be 
— in her crimson velvet hand-bag, with silver clasps, 
and paid one editorial visit after another astounded 
and dismayed to find that a half-finished romance 
by a new hand was not regarded in the light of a 
diamond field. Nothing could be more cordial than 
her reception. The feelingly-rendered narrative of 
its anonymous author’s struggles was listened to 
with the utmost sympathy, the same answer came 
from each. The novel might prove of deepest, nay, 
world- wide interest, a veritable gem, a literary pearl 
of great price ; in its present stage publishers could 
but regard it as the egg rather than the chicken ; 
the seed instead of the fiower ; the raw material 
and not the fabric. Let the writer go on boldly, 
add the colophon, and then proffer his manuscript. 


A PUENCH PAHSOPTAGE. 


m 


All these rebuffs Georgette bore with imperturb- 
able good humour and the serenest cheerfulness. 
She never doubted in ultimate success, and this 
hopeful spirit was caught by those around her. 
“He who is endowed with cheerfulness,” wrote the 
deep, the wise, the witty Schopenhauer, “ shall want 
no other blessing.” The sage should have added, 
“ nor shall his friends and familiars.” How many 
manly, womanly, wholesome lives are rendered 
purgatorial by the gloom and low spirits of others ! 
If indeed, dejection and pessimism could be pro- 
hibited by Act of Parliament, the annals of crime 
would diminish, and the sum total of happiness bd 
indefinitely increased. 

“Let me see,” Georgette said one morning, her 
brain busy with a hundred things, as she leaned 
back in her low chair apparently idleness itself, “ I 
really think, Marthe, we can return to St. Gilles 
this week. Your trousseau is put in hand, I have 
got my concierge’s brother a place. I fear he drinks, 
poor fellow, and his character is far from the best, 
but his wife has just had twins, and they would 
have starved, I do believe, but for me. Then I 
have persuaded my lawyers to employ Monsieur 
Jeunet. He knows nothing of the business, but that 
is not his fault, and some one must employ him ; we 
cannot let our fellow-creatures want bread. And I 
have got a letter of introduction to the Superioress 
of the Carmelite convent : she will let me speak with 
the nun, I feel sure — I mean the nun who sang so 
beautifully, and who, I believe, is my friend. Come 
here, httle Jane Mary, we will rehearse our lesson.” 


206 


THE BOMANCE OF 


By a whimsical inconsistency, English names are 
Gallicised in France or transported intact, whilst 
we, in turn, find French versions more pleasing and 
elegant. The soft and musical Jeanne becomes 
homely Jane on the other side of the Channel. 
Sweet Mary is exchanged for Marie on our own ; 
whilst Bob, Bill, Jack, are found altogether fascinat- 
ing in French ears. Heaven alone knows why. 

Thus addressed, there rose from Marthe’s side one 
of those little twelye-year-old women, as much a 
growth of Paris as its house-sparrows. There was 
nothing childlike about Jane Mary but stature and 
weight. In her precise way of doing things, in 
speech, look, manner, she showed the circumspection 
and adroitness of mature years. Where personal 
interest was concerned she could display the finesse 
of the consummate worldling. 

“ I am entirely at your disposal, dear Madame,” 
she said, standing erect before her patroness, her 
aplomb and self-assurance being wonderful to be- 
hold. 

“ You are a discreet little girl, I can see that,” 
Georgette replied approvingly, “ you will neither get 
me nor yourself into a scrape.” 

“Never fear, Madame,” was the prompt an- 
swer. 

“ It is as well, however, to be prepared for em- 
barrassing questions beforehand. Suppose, for 
instance, that the Mother Superior should ask who 
you are, what would be your reply ? ” 

“ ‘ Holy mother,’ I should say, ‘ I am the niece of 
Madame Delinon.’ ” 


A FBEKCB PARSONAGE. 


207 


“No, you must not say that, it would not he 
right ; ” poor Georgette said, her own definitions of 
verbal truth and falsehood being of the haziest. 
“ You may say that you are my adopted niece. 
Your guardians allow you to spend some time with 
me in the country. I am in the position of an aunt, 
for the time being; you are my niece by adop- 
tion.” 

“Very good, Madame.” 

“ Most likely you will have nothing whatever to 
say at all. Questions concerning yourself will in 
all probability be put direct to me, and a well-man- 
nered child generally leaves her elders to answer 
for her. But, as you know, I shall not be permitted 
to see the face of the nun ; the black curtain of the 
inner grating will only be drawn aside for you be- 
cause you have not yet been confirmed. That is the 
rule, you understand ? ” 

“Perfectly, perfectly, Madame — my dear aunt. 
I had better accustom myself to the words,” said 
Jane Mary pertly,' “or madame might slip out 
unawares.” 

“ Quite right. But now, tell me what my friend 
is like, I mean the friend whom I believe you will 
find in the Carmehte sister we are going to see at 
St. Gilles?” 

“ She has dark, bluish -gray eyes, beautiful arched 
light-brown eyebrows, a straight nose, a small mouth, 
lovely little teeth, and a dimple on each cheek ” 

“ Mind and look for the dimple,” interrupted the 
monitress. “ If you are quite sure of that you may 
take the rest for granted.” 


^08 


THE ROMANCE OF 


“ And slip your tiny note into her hand ? ^ 

“We will see about the note when the time 
comes,” Georgette said, looking slightly embar- 
rassed. Her own actions concerned herself. She 
hesitated to impose a task involving direct duplicity 
upon another, that other a child. Yet, she reasoned, 
it were but doing evil that good may come ! My 
poor Bertrande ! What if I am right ! That 
pathetic, appealing voice betrayed the truth. If my 
Bertrande still lives, the perhaps unwilling inmate 
of a living tomb ! 

Just then a letter was brought addressed in the 
only handwriting that could have made her quit her 
chair. With the breathless eagerness of a girl re- 
ceiving her first love-letter, overcome by an emotion 
she wished to conceal, she walked to the window 
and read it, having her back turned upon the rest. 

Evelard’s missive was short, consisting of a few 
lines only, but it said all that he wanted to say, all 
that Georgette wanted to hear. He had need of 
her ; he begged her, if she loved him, to return at once. 

Iler heart gave a great leap, for a minute or two 
she stood still ; overcome with the most delicious 
emotion of her life. 

The autumnal aspect of the boulevard, the copper- 
ish-green leaves drifting one by one from the lime 
trees, the cold bright sky overhead, the sparrows 
picking crumbs on her balcony— all these things, 
she seemed to see for the first time, she would never 
again see as she saw now. How often in after years 
did her thoughts revert to the scene, the hour, a 
scene familiar as daily bread, but to-day rendered 


A FEENCB FAESONAGE. 209 

fairy-like ; an hour evanescent as any other, but 
containing a little life of secret hope and joy ! 

She turned to the others with a radiant face, — 

“ Dear children,” she said, “ I start for St. Gilles 
to-day, at once, in an hour’s time. You two will 
follow to-morrow with old Francine and Mariette. 
Marthe, put me up some breakfast to eat on the 
way, and you, little Jane Mary, come and help me 
with my travelling bag. Mariette must order a 
fly.” 

The two girls looked at each other, interchanging 
significant smiles. 

“ Dear little aunt,” Marthe said, going up to her 
protectress and fawning upon her, “how sorry I 
am that you must leave us.” As she said this she 
secretly squeezed Jane Mary’s hand. 

“ And I too ; the time will seem, oh ! so long, till 
we see you again,” said the little girl, addressing 
her newly- adopted aunt, at the same time return- 
ing Marthe’s salutation with interest. 

When Georgette sat down at her little writing- 
table, having her back once more turned to them, 
the pair giggled, chuckled, whispered. 

“We will go with Mariette to the Bois and have 
ices,” said Marthe. 

“ And, oh, Marthe, what do you say to the Mon- 
tagues Russes ? — we needn’t tell.” 

“ I shall send a telegram to my aunt to-morrow to 
say we can’t possibly get off for another day,” 
added the other. 

“ Do let us breakfast at the great Duval, near the 
Palais Royal.” 


14 


210 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Unsuspicious enough, Georgette, scribbled away ; 
first of all a telegram to Evelard, announcing her 
arrival the same evening, next to Jeunet with half 
a score commissions, then a dozen or so of notes and 
post cards to friends, acquaintances, protegees, and 
milliners. 

An hour later, composure, neatness and prompt- 
itude personified — that last, by the way no common 
feminine virtue in France, wearing the most becom- 
ing travelling dress imaginable — she appeared at 
the railway station. 

During that long railway journey she could neither 
read nor look about her. The most appropriate 
volume she had been able to lay hands on was in 
her bag. She now felt it her duty to become ac- 
quainted with the great Protestant authors of 
France, but somehow D’Aubigne’s “ History of the 
Reformation ” failed to interest. The shifting land- 
scape, so historic, so varied, so rich with autumnal 
tints, proved equally unattractive. The delicious 
pastoral scenes of La Vendee, its moated granges, 
watered meads, and sombre donjons frowning above 
the wooded banks of the Charente — “ fairest river 
of my kingdom,” said the gay Gascon King Henri 
Quatre — all these delightful pictures were hardly 
glanced at. She leaned back with half-shut eyes in 
a state of blissful trance. Evelard loved her ; she 
was necessary to his happiness. Love would con- 
done every fault and shortcoming. 


A FBENCB PAESONAGE. 


211 


CHAPTER XXV. 

WAS LOST AUD IS FOUND. 

It did not for a moment disconcert Georgette to find 
no Evelard awaiting her on the platform. Her 
nature was too large and generous to indulge in 
petty jealousies, or seek foolish affronts. If he 
stayed away, it was simply because he had the best 
possible reason for doing so. 

She drove home through the dark, sweet-scented 
pinewoods, impatiently putting her head out of the 
window from time to time. She had no idea that 
the distance between Royan and St. Gilles was so 
long! At last, lights were seen twinkling through 
the trees, the village street, town in miniature, with 
church, town-hall and police station, was traversed. 
A quarter of an hour later and her carriage wheels 
grated on the chateau drive. At the sound, doors 
were fiung wide ; pet dogs yapped with delight ; 
light, warmth and savoury smells from the kitchen 
greeted the traveller; old servants welcomed her 
as if the cheer and comfort were of their giving 
— but still no Evelard. “After all,” refiected 
Georgette, “ to stay away was considerate. I must 
change my dress and rest a little. He will come 
later.” 


212 


TBE ROMANCE OF 


A cheerful wood-fire blazed on the hearth, abun- 
dance of wax lights illuminated the sunflower- 
curtained room, the' upholstery being of that rich 
regal yellow so popular in France. Amid these 
gorgeous surroundings Georgette soon sat sump- 
tuously attired as a queen. 

The weather was chilly and she had not yet worn 
a dress after her own heart, a gown of garnet- 
coloured velvet trimmed with Auvergne lace — the 
point made there, by feminine artists, generations, 
even centuries ago, a single piece often occupied the 
lace-maker’s lifetime. Such heirlooms, now mostly 
seen in museums or church treasuries, can be turned 
to manifold uses, and Georgette’s had adorned one 
gala robe after another, to-day being a flounce, last 
year a fichu, to-morrow an apron. In her girlish 
days it was worn over rose-pink, hyacinth-blue or 
pale primrose, later with deep-hued brocade or velvet. 

She had chosen that fabric now, and the glowing 
wine-red tint, became just such a dress Evelard had 
noticed and admired years before. Scrutinising the 
whole he had first rebuked feminine vanity, then 
corrected himself with a citation from a German 
author. Georgette thought and thought, and at last 
the name of the book, even the very words of the 
citation, came back to her, — 

“ What says one of the great gods in Wilhelm 
Meister ? ” he asked. “ Should a pigmy like my- 
self gamsay Goethe when he gave his whole mind to 
this as to weightier subject? How senselessly 
many poets and so-styled impressionable men set 
themselves against splendour and ornamentation in 


A FBENCIl PARSOITAGE. 


213 


woman’s dress, he wrote clamouring for natural- 
ness and simplicity irrespective of rank, blaming 
ornament without pausing to reflect that it is but 
ornament itself that displeases when it happens to 
he an ill-favoured and ordinary person richly or 
strangely habited ! ” 

Then, as if to make amends for his raillery in the 
first instance, he had laid an approving hand on her 
own, adding, — “ Nay, never grudge the time or 
money spent upon self-adornment, dear friend. 
Beautiful women make the poetry of the work-a- 
day world, — that was said ten years ago.” Georg- 
ette glanced in the mirror, with the comforting 
thought that time had touched her lightly. 

Without retaining in middle life the enviable 
slenderness of so many English matrons, she had 
yet escaped the too ample proportions of her own 
country-women, penalty perhaps paid for taking life 
too easily. 

With Evelard too, time had not stood still. He 
looked years older than he was in reality ; and he 
was, at all events she felt, oh, how much younger. 

Pleasant musings, the prevailing atmosphere of 
warmth, ease and comfort, soon made her drowsy. 
Leaning back in her low chair, one little silk- 
stockinged, daintily-slippered foot peeping from 
beneath her white lace-bordered under-skirt, a 
feather screen dropped in her lap, she gradually fell 
into a light sleep. 

The sudden opening of the door aroused her. It 
was of course, Evelard! She started up, smiling 
sweetest welcome, but instead of one black- robed 


214 


THE BOMANGE OF 


figure in the doorway, she now saw two, and women 
wearing the heavy hooded cloak of the Huguenot 
matrons hereabouts. In the foremost, Georgette 
immediately recognised Evelard’s housekeeper, but 
before she could ask her errand, the old woman had 
thrust a note in her hand, mumbled a word of 
apology, and motioning her companion to advance, 
shuffled out of the room. 

Georgette tore open her lover’s letter, to find a 
few hastily-pencilled words only. He would see her 
early next day, he wrote. Meantime he confided to 
her care a friendless outcast, whose story she would 
learn from her own lips. 

Whilst Georgette scanned the tiny scrap of paper, 
running her eyes over each word again and again in 
search of some lover-like expression, some little term 
of endearment, the black-draped stranger stood 
transfixed with sudden surprise or emotion. From 
under the heavy hood Hashed a look of amazed 
recognition ; the thin bare hands were raised in joy 
and wonder, from the parted lips escaped an exultant 
cry. She moved a step forward, gazing as if spell- 
bound at the sumptuous, smiling chatelaine of the 
reading-lamp. 

For Georgette did at last find what she wanted, 
and the treasure-trove evoked a smile. The tiny 
note, scribbled in such desperate haste, sealed so 
carefully, contained all that she was longing for,— 
“Your gratefully adoring Evelard,” he had written 
by way of conclusion. Volumes could not have told 
her more. Pocketing the now precious document, 
she turned towards the suppliant, encouragingly ; 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 215 

“ The pastor’s recommendation suffices,” she said 
“ Poor dear woman ! In me you find a friend.” 

For a moment the other stood irresolute. Then, 
with swift, uncertain, nervous movements, her fin- 
gers fumbled for the clasp at her throat ; it was un- 
fastened at last, the long hooded mantle enveloping 
her from head to foot fell to the ground. What 
was Georgette’s astonishment to see before her the 
white-robed figure of a cloistered Carmelite ? 

The wearer was a girl still. Easy to tell that, in 
spite of her wasted cheeks, hollow eyes, and general 
look of feebleness and emaciation. She had the 
weak, worn look of one who has wrestled with 
deadly ailment, gazed upon death face to face, and 
at the eleventh hour glided back to suffering life. 
There were traces of beauty, grace, even joyous- 
ness, which years of direst bodily and mental priva- 
tion and torture had not been wholly able to de- 
stroy. The slender form, so hideously travestied, 
was erect still, the sallow wasted features were not 
without softness of outline, the deep blue eyes 
retained depth and tenderness. At any other time 
Georgette would have immediately bent her mind 
upon the solution of such a problem, and asked her- 
self how it came about that she was here so strik- 
ingly, painfully reminded of one long since con- 
signed to the tomb ? The dreams and projects of 
yesterday, the haunting vision of the sweet-voiced 
nun, the proposed visit to the convent — all these 
things were forgotten now. Evelard’s little note^ 
the prospect of seeing him next day, made her 
absent and oblivious of all else. Surprised as she 


216 


THE ROMANCE OF 


was at this strange apparition, her thoughts were 
all the time wandering back to her own affairs. The 
only reality in life just then seemed Evelard’s love. 

But as the intruder confronted her hostess, smil- 
ing because smiled at, there might be seen on either 
cheek a lovely dimple. That dimple transformed 
the pale, pain-stricken face, lent a look of youthful- 
ness, naturalness, and looking forward, arrested 
Georgette’s fugitive attention with lightning-like 
rapidity, made clear as day what before had been 
mystery only. 

In her turn she seemed under a spell. The pair 
gazed fixedly at each other, tears sprang to their 
eyes, cheeks glowed, then, with a low, caressing 
word on the lips of each, they smiled, embraced, 
wept as fondest sisters, one of whom was dead and 
is alive again, was lost and is found ! ” 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE, 


217 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE STORM BREAKS. 

Xext morning Evelard came early, so early that 
Georgette’s flutter of pleasurable expectation changed 
to dismay. Something else must have happened 
to bring him to the chateau before any town-bred 
lady could be expected to have made her first 
toilette. She had slept late and brokenly, her rest 
having been disturbed by overfatigue and excite- 
ment. Xot that any sense of responsibility con- 
cerning the fugitive weighed upon her mind. Georg- 
ette knew the world well. She was comfortably 
aware of the inviolability accorded by certain con- 
ditions of fortune to certain offences against routine 
and society. Exceptional circumstances too were in 
her favour. She was herself by birth a Catholic, and 
although an indifferentist, holding aloof from devo- 
tional exercises, she had ever avoided offence to the 
Church. All that generosity and affection prompted 
she would do for her friend, and she felt assured 
beforehand that it would be done with impunity. 

Tripping downstairs in her pretty morriing-gown 
and dainty little cap to match, she greeted Evelard 
airily, as if nothing had occurred at all out of the 
way. 


218 


THE ROMANCE OF 


“ Do not be uneasy about your protegee,” she said 
with a httle air of mystery. “ Her story you shall 
learn some day, meantime a sister were not more 
welcome.” 

He was standing with his back to the fireplace 
when she entered, his eyes bent on the fioor, his 
whole attitude that of a man lost in painful thought. 
The meaning of those cheerful, affectionate words 
hardly seemed to reach him. He glanced up how- 
ever at the «ound of her voice, and with a look of 
inexpressible yearning gathered her to his heart, 
his tears falling on her cheek, as she rested there. 

a Why so sad ? ” she asked softly. Then drawing 
back and holding him at arm’s length, tried to smile 
away his depression. 

Still he made no reply. 

Georgette continued, — 

“ That poor girl, her fiight, perhaps, has caused 
you annoyance ; but when you learn all, when you 
know her history ” 

‘‘ Let me forget her, let me banish from my mind 
the innocent cause of my ruin,” he said, at last. 
“ Who could have foreseen ? But of what use such 
idle retrospection ! Read, dearest friend, and you 
will understand how I need all the comfort you can 
give me.” 

He thrust two letters in her hand, and, whilst she 
read, walked backwards and forwards, speaking, 
agitatedly half to her, half to himself. “ It is incon- 
ceivable, monstrous, that I should be thus misjudged 
calumniated. Exists there then no Christian charity 
within the pale of any Church ? Is a man to be 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


219 


treated as a scapegoat of society simply because he 
has tried to enroll himself under the banner of what 
he believes to be the purest ? Must I renounce my 
calling, and become a layman in order to have com- 
mon justice meted out to me ? But no ; I will not 
own to a fault which I have never dreamed of com- 
mitting. They may mentally lay me on the rack, 
I will be myself, and nothing but myself, come what 
may.” 

Meantime Georgette, with a thrill^of womanly 
exultation, was reading the two large, important- 
looking missives he had put in her hands. Can any 
moment in a woman’s life be more delicious than this, 
the first participation in her lover’s serious business 
affairs, and first sharing of his moral and social bur- 
dens ? Full as she was of tendere^t concern. Georg- 
ette’s heart beat with perhaps the most blissful 
emotion she had ever known. She was, then, no 
mere spoiled child of society in his eyes ; no mere 
worldling whose highest destiny was to adorn and 
brighten fireside existence, but a true helpmate and 
hearthmate, raised to his own level, made one with 
him by virtue of deep-rooted affection and whole- 
hearted confidence. 

The first letter, written from the Town Hall of 
La Roche St. George’s and bearing the mayor’s signa- 
ture, only became intelligible by a perusal of the 
second. It stated, in brief and homely language, 
that after what had transpired, the municipal coun- 
cil released the pastor Evelard from any further 
obligations. Whilst thanking him for his efforts so 
far to explain the tenets of the Refornaed Faith, they 


220 


THE ROMANCE OF 


were not disposed, under the circumstances, to pro- 
ceed with these theological inquiries any further, at 
least for the present. 

The second document was also ofiBlcial. It bore 
the seal of the Consistory of Toulouse, and respect- 
fully informed Pastor Evelard that, having in view 
the unanimously- expressed wishes of his congrega- 
tion, his duties in the pastorate of St. Gilles would 
cease at the close of the present quarter. His future 
destination \^uld be signified later. 

Georgette’s first summing-up of the matter was, 
of course, of the woman, womanly. For the moment 
a vision of freedom, ease, happiness, shut out all sense 
of Evelard’s dire humiliation. She saw him once 
more at the parting of the ways, at liberty to live for 
himself, for her, and be happy. Why should he toil 
in the thankless cause of others any longer? Were 
there not thousands of inferior men as well able to 
fulfill these circumscribed duties, aye, and better, 
than one of his sensitive temperament ? She re- 
folded both letters, and going to him where he stood, 
slipped them in his outer pocket ; then, with tender- 
est, most persuasive insinuation, said, — 

“Dear friend, forget these mortifications; your 
spirit is too high, your character too noble for the 
callmg of a parish priest. The same kind of annoy- 
ances are sure to disturb your peace wherever you 
go. Be guided by me. Give up the Church. Live 
in the world ; occupy yourself with literature ; travel. 
Is not my fortune yours, to do with as you will? 
Why, then, toil so thanklessly for daily bread ? And 
you are not young,” she added, pleading more and 


A FMENCU: PAESONAGE. 


221 


more pathetically. « Struggle and mental conflict 
have aged you. Small humiliations are borne less 
easily as we grow older. Oh, hearken to your friend, 
then ! Enjoy a little happiness whilst you may.” 

He smiled sadly, but almost tenderly, with the look 
of one who has heard without listening. She hardly 
felt sure that the words, much more their meaning, 
had reached him. When he spoke it was rather to 
continue his self-explanation than to meet her own 
.arguments. 

“ Other men would have acted on the defensive,” 
he began. “ They would have at once tendered their 
resignation to the Consistory and excused themselves 
from further ministrations at St. George’s. Such a 
line of conduct were politic, worldly-wise, I admit. 
But so long as I retain self-mastery I will never cower 
before petty persecution. I will never be brow- 
beaten by unfair accusers.” 

“You will not then renounce the Church ? ” 
Georgette ventured to put in. 

“ Is it fatality, character, or blind will that ties 
some men hand and foot to callings they have once 
made their own ? ” he cried vehemently. “ I know 
not, I cannot say. This I do know — a minister of 
religion I am, a minister of religion I remain. For 
me the sacerdotal career means no longer distinction, 
the favour of the world, a leading part in the affairs 
of men. Rather it means obscurity, self-abnegation, 
disfavour of my fellows. But I cannot change my 
profession any more than I can change myself. Jeu- 
net’s case is wholly different. He does not realize 
the spiritual necessities of mankind at all. I do, 


222 


THE ROMANCE OF 


and as a logical sequence, I respect in myself, first 
the pastor, then the man.” 

He paused, looked at her with half-pitying, half- 
reproachful fondness. 

“You spoke just now of toiling thanklessly, of an- 
noyances I am sure to meet with. I heard, although 
I appeared wrapped in my own thoughts. Are not 
these compensated for a thousand-fold if one heart is 
touched by my efforts, one soul made sensible of its 
loftier part? You advise me to quit the Church.. 
Where more than in this prosperous France of ours 
is needed religion in its widest, noblest develop- 
ment ? I am no optimist concerning my own powers 
or human nature generally, but I recognize the value 
of what I do possess, namely, a conviction. And a 
conviction implies responsibility ; have you thought 
of that?” 

Georgette listened pensively. Every syllable 
crushed an illusion. She could not understand his 
way of looking at things ; his aspirations savoured 
of chimera, his self-sacrifice of Quixotism. She felt 
utterly powerless to combat either. Love, inclina- 
tion, the world, might beckon and cajole. He was 
deaf and blind except to the voice within, the goal 
lying straight before him. Those enticing visions 
of a congenial, pleasant existence vanished one by 
one. The path to be trodden by his side was uphill, 
rough, bristling with thorns. 

“ Do not look so downcast,” he said, stooping down 
and kissing her on the brow as if comforting some 
vexed child ; “ these clouds will pass over. Mean- 
time not a word concerning me and my troubles to 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 223 

that poor girl. She must never know how much my 
poor services have cost me.” 

Georgette looked up with a glance of keen, pene- 
trating enquiry. But Evelard went on in the same 
cold, almost indifferent tone : 

“She will of course confide to you her history; 
you will immediately communicate with her friends. 
The sooner she is restored to them the better. Bless 
you for all these benevolences, dearest friend.” 

He glanced at the time-piece, then took up hat 
and stick. 

“ You are surely not leaving me ; you will stay to 
breakfast ? ” Georgette asked. 

“ I have to bid you adieu for several days, perhaps 
a week. I start to-day for Toulouse and Paris. It 
is a duty to myself — to you — to explain my con- 
duct,”, he said. “But on my return ” 

He moved a step nearer and added in a low voice, — 

“ On my return — as soon as may be— let our young 
friend Bourgeois join our hands ” 

Georgette felt a sob rising to her throat ; she 
could only answer him with a tearful smile. 

“Your fortune I cannot accept,” he went on hur- 
riedly, his voice dropping almost to a whisper ; 
“ your life, in so far as possible, shall be as now 
your own, to do with as you will. You must be 
happy for my sake. Only give me a fireside, a home, 
that affection for which I have yearned all my life 
in vain.” 

Then he made his adieu hastily and went away, 
leaving Georgette in that humour which is akin to 
both laughter and tears. 


224 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Was she sad or merry, cast down or elated beyond 
her wildest dreams ? She hardly knew. Evelard’s 
respect, gratitude, friendship ; all these were hers. 
What was missing that at times made such gifts 
questionable, even valueless ? 


A FRENCH FAUSONAGE. 


225 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CHEYSALIS AND BUTTERFLY. 

Georgette would not have been a Frenchwoman 
had that April mood of alternating sunshine and 
shower lasted. Half an hour after Evelard’s departure 
she was herself again, entering with buoyant, girlish 
spirit into the interesting business of the day. ‘For- 
tunately she had too much on her hands to brood over 
his absence just now. Regarded in a practical light, 
and with reference to her plans, it was fortuitous. 

Beamingly and bearing an armful of blue and 
and white draperies, she knocked at her protegees 
door. The fugitive had been lodged in the pretty 
little bedchamber prepared for Jane Mary. 

“Up and dressed already, and still wearing those 
hideous garments,” Georgette cried, throwing her 
heavy burden of cashmeres, muslins, and lace on a 
chair, and embracing the other warmly. “ See, Ber- 
trande, I have come to dress you ! Niece Marthe, of 
course you remember her,^she was a child when you 
took the veil, but is nineteen now and about to be 
married. Well, part of her trousseau has arrived, and 
I have been robbing it — each article I shall replace for 
Marthe, of coui’se ; this dark blue dress is of your 


226 


THE BOMANCE OF 


favourite colour, and here are shoes and stockings 
to match, lace collarettes, everything. You will 
soon look exactly like your old self.” 

The girl watched the animated prattler with a 
dreamy, half- dazed expression. Georgette stooped 
down and gave her an encouraging caress. 

« I knew that you would feel strange at first, so I 
have telegraphed to Marthe not to return for a few 
days. We are to be quite alone a little while. Oh ! how 
much we have to tell each other, but it must be told 
by degrees. You are like a person recovering from 
blindness, who can only bear to face the light grad- 
ually. My poor child, how you must have suffered ! 
How happy I am to have recovered you ! ” 

The other bent over the blue draperies as if ex- 
amining the embroidery, in reality, to conceal her 
tears. Georgette took refuge in raillery. 

“ What are we to do with your old dress ? The 
difficulty haunted me all night, I could not sleep 
quietly a minute for thinking of it.” 

* She held a fold of the coarse white serge between 
finger and thumb with a gesture of desperation. 

“ This material is like the Wandering Jew. I sup- 
pose the Jesuits invented it, no one else was ever 
deep enough I feel sure. It has a hundred lives, it 
is indestructible. Fire won’t consume it, water 
won’t drown it, earth won’t absorb it.” 

She laughed merrily whilst putting on an expres- 
sion of concern. 

“ That dress of yours, Bertrande, is as difficult to 
get rid of as a murdered body. If we set fire to it 
there will be such a smoke that all the fire engines 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


227 


for miles round will be here in a twinkling. If we 
bury it in the remotest corner of the pine wood, 
some dog or other will be sure to rmearth it. If we 
take a boat and drop it miles away in mid-ocean, 
the waves will as certainly wash it ashore within 
twenty -four hours. Let us hide the bugbear from 
sight anyhow. I am dying to transform my ugly 
chrysalis into a beautiful butterfly.” 

She began her task of unrobing with impatient, 
irreverential, disdainful fingers. No meaning had 
these graceless habiliments in the eyes of the warm- 
hearted worldling but debasing, abject illusion. 
Bertrande, on the contrary, eyed each garment wist- 
fully. What angelic visions of atonement for sin, 
angelic intercourse and heaven-born peace had vis- 
ited the novice. What cruel disenchantment and 
bitter awakening awaited the devotee ! How com- 
plete the spiritual bankruptcy of the apostate ! She 
had entered, so she fondly believed, a house of sanc- 
tification, by virtue of fasting, penance, and prayer, 
to forestall heavenly mansions. She left behind her 
a dark prison unillumined by a single ray of Divine 
Love, because the warm human affections were ban- 
ished from its precincts. 

“ There they are ! ” Georgette cried exultingly. 
“ For that bundle you exchanged the brightest lot 
ever girl was born to : you presented the Church 
with a million francs. She handsomely gave you in 
return a fustian gown ! ITow you came to make the 
crack-brained bargain I intend to worm out of you 
later. That is why I repudiate the Romish Church 
on accoimt of its immense greediness. When I find 


m 


TBE ROMANCE OF 


any other that is perfectly disinterested, practising 
the doctrine ‘ It is more blessed to give than to re- 
ceive,’ — then, Bertrande, I will become as pious as 
the best of you. And who knows ! I am going to 
— but no ! You shall hear all the news by bits. 
The first business is to dress you.” 

It was curious to see the change that came over 
Bertrande under her friend’s magic touch. The pal- 
lid, pensive, drooping girl gradually regained colour, 
expression, vivacity. As some fair landscape freed 
from morning mist at last unfolds itself in all its 
glory, as some chef d’’ oeuvre of the portrait painter’s 
art released from a veil of dust discloses fresh, breath- 
ing life, where before all had been indistinct and 
dull, as from dusky sheath there opens richest blos- 
som, paragon of the floral world, so did the , real 
Bertrande usurp the place of her cold semblance. 

Where just before stood in sharpest contrast two 
women who might have personified feminine witch- 
ery and gracelessness, beauty and aceticism, seemed 
now a pair of lovely sisters, the younger also the 
lovelier. 

Georgette’s first master-stroke was with her 
friend’s hair, that bright, chestnut hair, once so 
glossy and abundant, in the convent shorn close as 
a convict’s. 

“ Ah,” she moralized, brush in hand. “ If I ever 
felt truly vicious, ready to bite, scratch, beat, smash, 
do anything wicked and desperate, it was on the day 
of your taking the veil, when I saw a hideous old 
woman, abbess, was it ? — clipping your locks with 
a pair of garden shears^^ ” 


A FBEN€H PARSONAGE, 229 

“ Nay,” Bertrande put in, unable to resist a faint 
smile, “ you are exaggerating ” 

“ What matter ? Clip, clip, clip, off went your 
beautiful golden curls as a sheep’s wool at shearing 
time. I sobbed, I wrung my hands, I could hardly 
help screaming. And, mark my word, Bertrande, 
the finger of the Jesuit is there too ! We women are 
all like Samson, our strength, I mean our vanity, lies 
in our hair. Leave would-be nuns their long tresses 
and pretty gowns, and every cloistered convent 
throughout France would have to put up its shutters 
in less than a year. I hope some such law will 
really be passed soon. It is high time something 
should be done. Well, fortunately short hair is the 
fashion, and your own always curled delightfully. 
Look at yourself. When you have got on your blue 
gown, you might have walked straight out of 
Raphael’s pictures.” She held a hand-mirror before 
her friend, who gazed and gazed. Was it indeed her- 
self she saw there? Was this bright face, with its 
clustering curls her very own ? What had become 
of its sallowness, its lines of care, its yearning 
melancholy ? 

If to gaze upon beauty is to feel rapture, how 
doubly rapturous is the conviction of beauty in 
oneself! especially when the possession has been 
jeopardized, all but forfeited past recovery. 

Bertrande felt as one who wakes up from a long 
delirium, to find herself not only “ clothed and in her 
right mind,” but youthful, fair to look at as before. 
When the dress of softest, warmest blue was ad- 
justed, every fold making a graceful line, the beau- 


230 


THE BOMANCE OF 


tiful dyes gaining depth by contrast with her gold 
brown hair, she smiled to the figure in the mirror. 
Yes, she and life were friends once more. She had 
shaken off the cerements of the grave, the dark por- 
tal of Death was closed for a while ; sunshine, cheer- 
fulness, affection, were to be again her daily portion. 
“ For the first time for months, even years,” she 
said, “ I feel as if I could pray. But I won’t talk of 
these things to you, dear Georgette, I know you re- 
gard devotion in any form as mere waste of time, 
emptiness, vanity, and self-delusion.” 

“ My religion is to try to make people comfortable 
all round ; a poor one, no doubt, but perhaps better 
than none at all,” Georgette made answer, as she 
knotted a blue ribbon in the other’s hair, then stood 
back to see the effect. 

“I reason in this way, my dear Bertrande. We 
have a President in France who keeps things going 
for the general good. Would the poor man’s exist- 
ence be tolerable, would anything like law be pos- 
sible were every one of us to besiege him about our 
daily bothers and grievances ? So I hold we ought 
to regard the universe and what we call Divine Rule ; 
we must be satisfied with the existing order of things, 
never expecting them to be altered just to please us. 
Yes, I confess it, I am adverse on principle to reli- 
gions — as men have spoiled them. How much hap- 
pier you, for instance, would have been without any ! 
And another person, a friend of yours and mine — 
but we will talk of him presently.” 

“ Have you never then felt the need of an ideal ? ” 
Bertrande asked timidly. The blue gown, the golden 


A FBENCH PAH SON AGE. 


231 


curls, the graceful figure in the looking-glass seemed 
to recede from vision. Was she to find herself once 
more isolated, misunderstood, as in the cloister ? 

“ Ideals ! ” Georgette cried, with a pretty gesture 
of impatience. “ My dear Bertrande, as well light a 
charcoal pan and close every aperture at once, as take 
up with ideals. Human nature is peccable, society 
far from immaculate, the only reasonable course is to 
make the best of both. I said just now that my re- 
ligion was to try and make everybody comfortable; 
you may call it an ideal if you please, it is good 
enough for me. f Why do poor wretches rob, commit 
perjury, murder, and so forth? Because their lives 
are so desperately uncomfortable. Better their con- 
dition, make them healthy, cheerful and contented, 
let good clothes, good food, innocent enjoyment be 
within reach of all, and the race of criminals would 
become extinct in no time./ I have thought out these 
problems, I assure you.” 

“ But life is so short — and afterwards ? ” put in 
Bertrande. 

Georgette had unfastened her own brooch, a 
charming specimen of old Auvergnet jewellery, and 
stooping down put it in the other’s lace. 

“ That will do very nicely,” she said. “ I must 
find you earrings and a pretty ring or two, no woman 
is properly dressed without a bit of jewellery. 
What were you saying ? ‘ Life is so short — and 

afterwards ? ’ Really, my dear Bertrande, I should 
have thought you had mused enough on such lugu- 
brious themes within the convent walls. One might 
suppose you would gladly forget the death’s-head 


232 


THE ROMANCE OF 


and cross-bones for awhile ! But I must tell you 
that I have never shirked that side of the question 
any more than yourself. My philosophy, I’ll be 
bound, serves me here in as good stead as most peo- 
ple’s religion. My dear, I do not regard that ‘ after- 
wards ’ with dismay or terror. Do you remem- 
ber how I visited the cholera wards, and helped to 
nurse the village folk sick of typhus fever ? No, 
I should not be a true Frenchwoman, a daughter of 
Gaul, if I quailed before your ‘ afterwards. ’ ” She 
took off her own earrings, adjusted them to her 
friend’s ears, turned the pretty head now to the 
right, now to the* left, and went on, “ You see, my 
dear child, the day — I mean life— is very long after 
all. Like children we grow tired of both work and 
play by the time evening comes and our kind nurse 
—Death is feminine in France, you know — summons 
us to bed. Once fast asleep, will the question dis- 
turb the wisest of us whether we wake again or no ? 
If awakening comes, well and good. If not, the sleep 
will be without nightmare. Now let us take a turn 
in the garden. What are you doing ? The earrings 
and brooch match your dress admirably. Pray leave 
them, where they are.” 

“ Dear Georgette,” Bertrande said, as she re- 
moved the ornaments one by one, “ you forget my 
position. What have I to do now with jewels and 
finery ? Henceforth I am a penniless girl obliged 
to earn my own living as a teacher.” 

“ Chut, chut, chut ! You give me no time to 
make the necessary explanations. Marthe is about 
to be married. You must, of course, take her place. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


233 


The world has turned upside down since you took 
the veil. The strangest things have happened, to 
myself, to everybody. I am going to give up my 
home in Paris and — and live in the country. Your 
coming is a veritable godsend to me. But now, do 
let us take a turn in the garden before breakfast.” 


234 


THE BOMANCE OF 


CHAPTER XXVn. 

REVELATIONS. 

The short resplendent afternoon was drawing to a 
close. With gem-like clearness and brilliancy 
showed every feature of the landscape from Georg- 
ette’s windows, dark ilex woods, sands white as 
alabaster, unruflBled purple sea under a warm orange 
sky. Far away above the rim of forest stood out the 
grey roof and tall bell gable of the convent, and 
separated from these by yellowing foliage of orchard 
and kitchen garden, the low-roofed Protestant 
church and parsonage. 

As Bertrande gazed on this scene, so solitary, so 
still, so shadowless, more like a beautiful copy of 
nature than Nature’s self, she was reminded of her 
own position. Just as she seemed to be gazing, not 
on real woods, shore and sea, but on an unpeopled 
lifeless imitation, so a strange sense of unreality 
oppressed her senses. She was like some unhappy 
prisoner whose liberty is recovered too late. Per- 
ception remained, but the faculty of living, the power 
to hope, trust and look forward, would these ever be 
regained? In the old familiar, beautiful, quick- 
pulsed world she seemed an alien. “ Oh ! ” she 
thought as she turned from the fair and cold scene 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


235 


without to the equally irresponsive warmth and ele- 
gance within ; “ one there is, who could understand- 
me, one only, but to him I dare not go ! How would 
the priest receive me, a renegade, an apostate ? ” 

Her thoughts went back to the pastor whose 
voice and looks had so strangely recalled the friend, 
counsellor, love of her youth. 

“Was I dreaming, nursing a foolish phantasy?” 
she asked herself. “ It seemed to me as if I heard 
his very self, not the pastor of St. Gilles, warned, 
admonished, comforted, but the priest. I was once 
more in the confessional. The voice so gentle, yet 
full of quiet mastery, the eyes so penetrating, so 
tender, the smile too, but that was sadder than his ! ” 

Just then Georgette burst in, her cheeks aglow 
with pleasure, a parcel-laden servant following. 

“ Help me to take off bonnet and mantle,” she 
cried, sinking into a low chair. “ I am tired out. 
Never such a place for shopping as Royan at this 
time of the year. Positively nothing to be had. 
However, I contrived to get what you most want, 
and we shall be going to Paris soon. Open that box 
and let me try on your hat — not amiss, is it, for a 
country town? — and the cloak bordered with fur, 
quite a love ! ” 

“ Dearest Georgette,” Bertrande said, looking 
greatly distressed, “ I cannot accept so much from 
you. I cannot wear these things. Remember, I am 
no longer a personage, an heiress ; rich clothes will 
not become me now.” 

“ Nonsense ! Put on both bonnet and mantle, and 
walk straight to the door,” Georgette said, in high 


236 


THE BOMANGE OF 


glee — the subject of dress ever exhilarated her. “ It 
is now your turn to wear silks and velvet, mine to 
put on coarse serge and cotton. You will never be- 
lieve me when I tell you my news, but it is true. I 
am going to marry a poor country pastor — your bon- 
net, my dear, is half an inch too forward — that is the 
first surprise for you ; a greater still is in store. Does 
the mantle feel quite, quite comfortable, no drag- 
ging ? It really looks as if made for you ! ” 

Bertrande took off both bonnet and cloak, and laid 
them aside with a pained, puzzled look. 

“ I will try to thank you for all your kindnesses 
by-and-by,” she said, sitting beside her. « Tell me 
more about yourself ? ” 

“And my pastor — ^that interests you? Ah ! I see, 
you are a woman still. The nunnery has not made 
you indifferent to the subject of weddings. Listen, 
then ; the Samaritan who took you in, and who con- 
fided you to my care, is my future husband. It is 
strange, but true, men and women, the wise as well 
as the foolish, forget how to put two and two 
together when they fall in love and marry ! Could 
any wife* be more unsuited to a minister of religion 
than myself ? I adore fashion, society, pleasure. We 
shall be exiled as completely as if in Siberia. I re- 
gard creeds and catechisms as mere survivals of 
monkish superstitions, not a pin to choose between 
them. I marry a nineteenth-century Huguenot, a 
second Luther, who would go to the stake for his 
religious opinions to-morrow with the greatest pos- 
sible satisfaction. Idealists, to my thinking, are all 
Don Quixotes, fighting with windmills, yet I wed as 


A FBENCB PARSONAGE. 


237 


complete a visionary as the Knight of La Mancha. 
But leave these things out of the question, think of 
the man himself, not his vagaries, well, I ought, I 
suppose, to say, his convictions. Ah ! Bertrande, you 
will not wonder, no one will wonder at my infatua- 
tion then — ” She looked in the fire, smiled, as she 
mused, and went on after a little pause, Tell me, 
of whom did your benefactor, our pastor here, re- 
mind you? You must have noticed the strangest 
likeness, a startling similarity of voice, features and 
figure to those of one you knew well in the old days. 
And a certain unmistakable air of distinction, too. 
Did it not seem strange to you that the pastor of an 
out-of-the-way hamlet like this, a mere handful of 
fishermen’s cottages, should possess a commanding 
presence, such noble bearing, such quiet dignity ? ” 
Bertrande was sitting on a low seat by her friend, 
her face in shadow ; as yet the lamps were not lit, 
and the half- burnt-out logs gave only subdued light. 
Georgette, smiling to herself, occupied with her own 
happy thoughts, failed to notice the change that 
came over her companion. Bertrande’s heart now 
beat quickly, her cheeks glowed, her lips trembled. 
The theme fascinated, but at the same time awed ; 
she could not trust herself to speak. 

“ You would never suspect the truth, of course, 
how could you dream of such a thing ? and for eight 
long years, no news from the outer world has reached 
you. That pastor then, Bertrande, the minister of 
St. Gilles, the man I am about to marry, is Evelard, 
himself, the Evelard you knew in the old days ! ” 
The girl was by Georgette’s side in a moment, 


238 


THE BOMANCE OE 


kneeling to her, her pale face lifted in an attitude of 
pitiful entreaty. 

“ Dearest Georgette,” she cried, “ if you love me, 
do not play with serious things, do not deceive me 
even in sport. All seems so unreal so fearfully 
strange, my poor brain is in a whirl with the un- 
reality and strangeness of everything. Oh, tell me 
only what is indeed true ! ” 

“ I felt sure that you would be greatly shocked at 
first, you were always such a reverential enthusiastic 
little creature. The notion that your old confessor 
had gone over to Protestantism must of course be 
very distressing — that is to say if you have come 
out of the nunnery the least little bit of a Catholic. 
But, my dear child, if you refiect seriously, you 
ought to respect Evelard all the more for the 
step he has taken. It is just worldly ruin to him, 
neither more nor less, this secession from Rome, 
and it is entirely a question of conscience. I don’t 
quite understand the difference between the two 
religions myself. I only know that pastors marry 
and cures don’t, and that there is no confessional in 
the Reformed Church. I highly approve of Luther 
so far, but my case is essentially different from your 
own. I am a Catholic born and bred, and certainly 
the position has social advantages. Religion means 
respectability 5 but I never, as the phrase goes, 
practised it. 1 never observed fast-days, or confessed 
as was your habit. To me, looked at in a practical, 
common-sense light, confession is a mere tribute to 
man’s egregious pretentiousness and vanity, and 
much more which I need not go into. Then the con- 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


m 


fessor ! I have always felt that I, that any decent 
woman was much more fit for the ofiice than ninety- 
nine of the other sex out of a hundred. The very 
best men — I know more of them than you do, my 
dear— are far from ethereal beings. What right 
then have the common herd to interfere with 
women’s, young girls’ secret thoughts and feelings ? 
Well, Heaven he praised, Evelard has done with the 
confessional. He did not belong to the common 
herd, certainly, but the duties forced on him as a 
confessor did more than anything else to drive him 
from Rome. He will tell you so himself.” 

Bertrande’s lips moved nervously. She -wanted 
to speak but the words would not come. At last 
she asked in a voice hardly audible, — 

“ Did he recognize me ? ” 

“ Fortunately not. I will tell you why I used the 
word, fortunately. It will be better that Evelard 
does not know who you are just yet for several rea- 
sons. You can easily understand that a man with 
his antecedents has many enemies. The whole 
Catholic Church, public opinion, society, are against 
him. His most trifiing actions are liable to miscon- 
ception. What any one else might do with entire 
impunity becomes in his case a heinous offence, a 
criminal act; your escape, for instance. That an 
ex- priest should conceal in his house an escaped nun, 
is regarded as a direct onslaught upon the Church 
he has disowned. The affair has caused him some — 
some little annoyance. Do not look so distressed. 
The whole thing will most likely be forgotten ere 
many weeks are over, and, later on, Evelard will 


240 


THE ROMANCE OE 


rejoice at having befriended you, and at having you 
with us always as a younger sister 

Bertrande tried to put in a passionate word of 
remonstrance, but Georgette would he heard out. 
“We are to he married soon and to leave this place, 
but the next pastorate is sure to be no improvement 
upon St. Gilles, most probably a jumping out of the 
frying-pan into the fire. Evelard will be appointed 
to some remote hamlet in Dauphine or the Cevennes, 
where snow lies on the ground during eight months 
in the year the nearest railway station is a day’s 
journey off, and no neighbours within twenty miles. 
How dull it will be ! Your coming, dear, is a god- 
send. We will get up little entertainments, private 
theatricals, dances, sing duets as in the old days— 
that reminds me, I heard you sing in the convent 
chapel a few weeks ago. I felt sure that voice was 
yours, and I think Evelard was reminded of you 
too ; he had stolen in to listen to the Ave Maria, and 
hurried away as if he had seen a ghost. Ah, foolish 
little Bertrande, I thought, poor captive bird, you 
are not happy, you beat your wings against the 
prison bars, you only need the door to be open to fiy 
away. I plotted and plotted 

“ Did you love me so dearly, then ? ” asked Bert- 
rande. 

“ My friends never know how I love them, T never 
know myself till they get into trouble. Well, there 
was no obtaining any direct information about you. 
Some of us had been told that you were dead. I 
believed in the voice. I determined to contrive an 
interview with the singer. So I went to Paris, set 


A FRENCE PARSONAGE. 


241 


people to work, got a letter to the Superior, found a 
little girl who had not yet taken her first commun- 
ion, who was to go with me to the convent and ident- 
ify you . As you know, no grown person is permitted 
to see a cloistered sister face to face. There is wisdom 
— the devil’s wisdom — in that arrangement. Who 
could have beheld you, my poor darling, so changed, 
in a few years, a mere spectre of yourself, without 
cursing these horrible prisons, without striving might 
and main to abolish them ! To return to my little 
ally. This child is artful enough for anything, would 
trick the whole college of Jesuits. She was to have 
kissed your hand, and in so doing slipped from her 
teeth a tiny note between your fingers, telling you 
that I was near, was ready to help you to escape. And 
now, the thing is done. You are with old friends; 
you, Evelard and I, shall be as happy as folks in the 
last chapter of a novel. I have really not a thing 
left to wish for.” 

So saying, she caught Bertrande’s hand in her own 
and pressed it to her cheek. 

“ Ice cold, and sitting close to a wood fire ! And 
so haggard ! You look as if you too had seen ghosts. 
I see how it is; you are a poor, feeble, tottering 
convalescent, who must be strengthened, cheered, 
fatted up by degrees. If Marthe and I were only 
not going to be married so soon I would take you 
to Biarritz for a month. What you need is entire 
change of air. I must see what can be done, I must 
hear what Evelard says. Ah! Bertrande,” she 
added, rising, “ I jest about the dreary life of a coun- 
try parsonage, the snow-bound villages, the lack of 
16 


242 


THE BOMANCE OF 


neighbours. I will now tell you what is sober ear- 
nest. The only thing I care about is to be with 
E velar d. I make merry, I play the child, I persuade 
the world that I am the typical Frenchwoman, the 
finished worldling. He knows otherwise — and I am 
too happy ! ” She stooped down, took her friend’s 
face between her hands, dropped a kiss and a tear 
on the wan cheeks, then hurried away to dress for 
dinner. 


A FBENCB PABSONAGF. 


243 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AXONE ! 

Two days after this conversation, Georgette entered 
Bertrande’s room bearing a handful of letters. They 
had been addressed to her guest under cover to her- 
self. 

“ Your friends are very prompt in replying,” she 
said with a peculiar smile. “ But I tell you again 
and again, dear, that you had much better stay with 
us. Your scruple about Evelard is sheer morbid- 
ness. The annoyance your coming has caused him 
is, I daresay, clean forgotten by this time, and when 
he learns that it was no stranger, but his little 
friend Bertrande who fled to him for shelter, he will 
feel amply compensated. You were ever a favourite 
of his, and he is magnanimity itself. Before read- 
ing these letters then, make up your mind to remain 
where you are. I should cherish you as a younger 
sister. In Evelard you can conflde as to the friend, 
the priest, the confessor of former days, he will talk 
to you about Protestantism. In the wide world 
there are none to whom you are so dear.” 

“It is just because I love you that I must go 
away. You will both be happier without me. I 
ought to go, I must, at least for a time,” Bertrande 
answered, as she took the letter with trembling fin- 


244 


THE ROMANCE OF 


gers. This pleasant house, these cheerful, affection- 
ate surroundings, had become intolerable as the 
cloister itself. In a few days Evelard would return. 
She quailed like a criminal before the thought of his 
coming. 

“ I leave you now to the reading of your corre- 
spondence,” Georgette said, smiling significantly as 
before. “You shall tell me what your friends say 
at breakfast. They have not kept you waiting, any- 
how.” 

She went away, leaving Bertrande alone with her 
letters — the first she had received for eight long 
years. With a little sigh of triumphant expecta- 
tion she turned them over one by one, each, to her 
thinking, a herald of affection, a harbinger of peace. 
Only to find peace! She had strength to endure 
everything but Evelard’s presence. 

In her bright, petted youth, that richly dowered 
orphanhood, which had been made a perpetual 
letters were always the fulfilment, or even anticipa- 
tion of her wishes. She could not recall one of cold 
or ungracious tenor. Youth, beauty, opulence— on 
these altars are not fires perpetually kept alive? 
Every missive deposited by the postman had been 
a homage to the beautiful young heiress. No won- 
der that she now broke the first seal confidently. 
From whom should she receive loving welcome if 
not from ner father’s old friend, and her former 
guardian, the wealthy Parisian banker, who had 
often and often acknowledged himself his young 
client’s debtor? 

“Mademoiselle,” — the letter began, that formal’ 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


245 


apostrophe chilling the breathlessly-impatient reader. 
Had she not ever been styled his dearest child, fondly 
cherished ward, adopted daughter ? 

“ Mademoiselle — ” wrote the banker. “ It was with 
deep pain and inexpressible humiliation, that Ma- 
dame Emoney and myself learned of your flight 
from the cloister, and, as we also gathered from 
your note, secession from the faith of your fathers. 
Such a step. Mademoiselle, involves issues which you 
seem wholly unable to realize. Without wishmg to 
harrow your feelings, I would point out that in thus 
breaking the most solemn obligation a human being 
can subscribe to, you place yourself beyond reach of 
sympathy, and even compassion. None, you re- 
member, endeavoured more strenuously than my- 
self to turn you from your purpose. I had a son, 
in every respect, you must admit, worthy of you. 
Nothing would have made us happier than to see 
you one of ourselves, a beloved daughter ; you turned 
a deaf ear alike to persuasion and entreaty, and, 
for reasons you would never divulge, even to your 
father’s most trusted friend and your own guardian, 
entered the cloister. Instead- of becoming a happy 
wife and mother, you determined to devote yourself 
to meditation and prayer. I am no devotee, that 
you know right well. As a man of business, of hon- 
our, a Catholic^ moreover, by birth, 1 can but de- 
nounce a line of conduct reprehensible in this as in 
any other walk of life. Contracts are made to be 
kept, not broken. The Church does not enforce 
conscription, she gladly accepts volunteers. She 
has a perfect right thus to protect herself against 


246 


THE BOMANCE OF 


the enrollment of the unstable and the frivolous. 
Nor is the world at variance with the stern sentence 
passed upon the apostate, as you, alas ! will too soon 
discern. The doors of society are barred against the 
cloistered sister, who, unashamed, casts aside her 
garments of humility, as against the recalcitrant 
priest who parades the tonsure in civilian’s dress. 
Propriety may be a harsh law-giver, but without it, 
the fabric of social life in France would tumble to 
pieces to-morrow. We must abide by the verdicts 
of propriety till a higher state of civilization gives 
us a wholly different standard of life and conduct. 

“ When you ask me. Mademoiselle, to receive you 
for a time under our roof, you ask what is impossi- 
ble. Our daughter having just completed her edu- 
cation, is about to be introduced in the world. At 
such a moment, your presence among us would not 
only be extremely embarrassing, but in the highest 
degree injurious to her prospects. On the other 
hand, Madame Emoney and myself cannot refuse to 
come to your aid materially, if you will let us know 
to what address a small sum of money can be safely 
sent. Emoney.” 

Throwing aside the missive with a little sob of 
indignation, Bertrande took up the second letter. It 
bore a provincial post- mark, and came from a near 
relation, her first cousin, long since married to a vil- 
lage notary. 

“Ah, Marie Louise will write affectionately, I 
know,” mused the girl. “We did not love each 
other at SQhool. I was rich, she was penniless. I 


A FBENGH PABSONAGE. 


247 


was calle.- pretty, she was plain. But the dowry 
and trousseau I gave her altered everything. ‘ You 
are my guardian angel, cousin,’ she used to say. ‘ I 
envied you in the old days, now I only adore. Your 
gift of fifty thousand francs has made me the happi- 
est woman in France — I who without it, must have 
remained a spinster, a nobody.’ Poor Marie Louise, 
how I rejoiced to help her ! I wonder if the baby 
ever came for whom I sent another little dowry 
before I took the veil ! ” 

She opened the envelope without the shadow of a 
misgiving. Marie Louise was her mother’s sister’s 
child. Such ties were surely indissoluble ! 

“ My dear Cousin,” was written in a small, mean, 
finicking hand, “ I write from my bed, your note 
having brought on a nervous attack, the conse- 
quences of which may be serious. I am now in a 
delicate state of health, expecting, within four 
months from this time, the birth of my second child, 

“ Had I received the tidings of your decease, my 
dear Bertrande, the shock would have been compar- 
atively slight — the grief bearable. I should have 
rejoiced to think that after a probationary period of 
holy meditation and prayer, you had joined the 
heavenly choirs, with them to intercede for your 
afflicted kindred and erring fellow-creatures. How 
often throughout the past few years has the thought 
that you were praying for us, consoled and strength- 
ened! My little girl, too — taught to regard her 
cousin Bertrande as a saint — whenever anything 
went wrong, would say, ‘ Do not fret, mamma, for 
Bertrande’s sake the blessed Virgin will make the 


248 


THE BOMANCE OF 


naughty people pay papa,’ — my husband has many 
bad debts — ‘will drive away the phylloxera,’ — our 
vines are attacked— ‘ will heal your sciatica,’— this 
place is near a river, and I am a martyr to rheurnatic 
pains. So the sweet child prattled, and to all of us 
you were an especial angel of intercession, expiating 
by a life of abstinence and piety, the sins we cau 
hardly help committing so long as we have to do 
with the world. A religious halo seemed to hover 
about us. We felt sure of being pardoned here- 
after,. and of gaining eternal felicity, for your sake. 
To have a Bertrande in the family was a passport to 
Heaven ! as good as a covenant of grace ! Imagine, 
then, my feelings, when I learned yesterday that we 
had been cheated, tricked, befooled ; that all these 
comfortable beliefs were mere illusions, and that, 
instead of bringing honour and blessing on us, you 
would bring disgrace and curses ! I do not pretend 
to be a devout woman; I have never had time for 
the proper fulfilment of my religious duties ; but, 
like yourself, I was carefully taught the catechism 
and the principles of Christianity. It will now be 
my task, Bertrande, to pray for you, and to implore 
Divine clemency for the offence you have committed 
against the one true religion, and the Apostolic 
Church. Count on my prayers. That is the only 
mark of affection you can now expect from your 
brokeuhearted and humiliated cousin, 

“ Marie Louise.” 

Bertrande’s hopes were not crushed yet. The 
second letter was thrown aside more coldly and 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE. 249 

haughtily than the first; but the third evoked a 
smile of confidence and looking forward. 

“ Marie Louise was always selfish and hard,’^ she 
thought; ‘‘what else could I look for? And she 
never loved me; her envious spirit would show itself 
in the least little thing. But here is a heart on 
which I may certainly count ; here is a nature, gen- 
erous as Georgette’s own. Dearest Madeleine,” and 
she raised the note to her lips, kissing it fondly, “ I 
felt sure you would hasten to welcome your friend, 
no matter how others might look askance and tread 
her under foot.” She tore open the envelope with 
its large, fiorid crest, stamped in violet and gold. 

“ I was not so very much astonished, my dear Bert- 
rande, to find that you had got out of the Carmelite 
convent by hook or by crook. Such things are con- 
stantly happening now-a-days. Ah, if you had only 
listened to me ! I would liave married you to my 
brother — now a lieutenant- colonel in garrison here — 
your handsome fortune was just what he wanted. 
He is the best of men. We should have been sisters. 

“ You have been as good as dead and buried these 
past years. Of course you know nothing of the strikes 
that have taken place in the iron trade, commercial 
crises and so on. Andre lost a good deal, and al- 
though things are better now, we have to be very 
economical, and the cost of living at Lyons is very 
high. We are obliged to keep up a certain appear- 
ance, and never to see7n to retrench, as that would do 
Andre’s business harm. It is a comfort to think that 
you have plenty of rich friends who will be delighted 
to give you a home. I am thinking of the Emoneys 


250 


THE ROMANCE OF 


and that set, all Rothschilds compared to ourselves. 
If it were any other time of the year, I would say, 
come to us for a week or two, but we have now left 
(5ur country house a few miles off, and settled down 
in a flat for the winter, without so much as a spare 
cupboard. It most unluckily happens, moreover, 
that my own quarter’s income was laid out the very 
day it fell due, on new upholstery for the salon, an 
expense absolutely necessary, as we receive a good 
deal when in town. I have really not more than a 
hundred or two francs to go on with, and of course, 
no wife who respects herself will borrow money of 
her husband. Had this only happened a few months 
ago, I could have supplied your wants without the 
slightest inconvenience, and taken you in for the 
whole summer, made over to your use the sweetest • 
little room imaginable, looking on to a croquet lawn 
d VAnglaise, Unfortunately, here we are very badly 
off in the way of accommodation, and — of course you 
do not know it — I have two children, a girl and a 
boy. Children take up so much room ! 

“ I will tell you what I can do. I visit a good 
deal and feel sure that I must have heaps of new 
clothes, never so much as tried on, I could spare 
and never miss. I will All a box with a dress piece 
or two, slips, linen, gloves, lace, ribbons, and various 
items of dress that seem mere nothings and are yet 
of the first importance. The box shall go off to- 
morrow carriage paid. 

“ Your affectionate 

“ Madeleinte.” 

p, s.— I am dreadfully sorry. I have turned out 


A FBENCR PARSONAGE. 


251 


drawers, boxes, wardrobes, cupboards, and can find 
nothing that is but well worn, on the verge of the 
unwearable, not so much as a pair of new gloves or 
stockings. The only thing really worth sending is » 
fashionable bathing costume I ordered from Paris 
and fomid a misfit. Sea-bathing is surely the very 
thing to set you up after all that you have gone 
through. I will post off the dress to-night. And 
yet, how foolish of me ! we have already begun fires, 
better to keep it for you till next year. — M. L.” 

When a little later Georgette re-entered the room, 
she knew without a word what had happened. The 
letters lay scattered on the floor, Bertrande, having 
her back turned towards them, gazed out of the 
Vindow, deaf, blind, insensible to everything but the 
desolation of the hour. To Georgette’s insinuating 
endearments, sisterly kiss, repeated caress, she only 
answered at first with a hard, tearless smile. 
Womanly pride was warring with mortal weakness. 
What would she not have given in that moment of 
fierce indignation, to be able to throw herself on her 
friend’s bosom and tell her all ? But between this 
loving Georgette and herself there rose a wall of 
separation. She must perforce remain alone. 

“ Read,” she said at last, placing the letters into 
her friend’s hand, and bursting into angry tears. 

“ There are hearts of stone then outside the cloister ? ” 

“ Women are not metamorphosed into angels by 
bringing children into the world that I ever heard of, 
any more than by going without stays, living on 
raw carrots and mumbling perpetual Paternosters,” 


262 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Georgette coolly replied. “ But do let me see what 
these highly respectable folks say for themselves. 
You will laugh heartily at all this a month hence.” 

The pair sat down side by side, Georgette slily 
drawing away the other’s pocket-handkerchief from 
her eyes, then with little contemptuous shrugs of 
the shoulders, arching of the eyebrows, pursing of 
the lips, smiles, nods, and ejaculations she got through 
her task. 

“ There speaks the great god Self,” she cried, “ first 
the world is its mouthpiece, then cant, then greed, 
the three uppermost powers that be. On my word, 
my dear Bertrande, you are a lucky girl, you obtain 
experiences of life that would set uj) Balzac himself ! 
And, after all, what else could you expect ? Affec- 
tion, so called, is in nine cases out of ten, self-interest 
in disguise. I have found it so over and over again. 
But now, do make up your mind not to fret and 
worry, but to live happily with me. Surely, if there 
are two persons in the wide world you can count 
on, it is Evelard and myself.” 

“ Georgette,” Bertrande began, speaking very slow 
and deliberately, “I have been irrational, I see it 
now.” 

“Of course, dearest. Would any woman in her 
sober senses hand over her liberty and her conscience 
— all that make life worth living — to say nothing of 
a million of francs ! to the Church in return for a 
plank bed, a fustian gown, and rations of water gruel ? 
[When universal human nature is sane to the core, 
priests, whether Brahmins, Imans, Rabbis, cures, or 
pastors, will all have to retire on half -pay. | Evelard 


A FBiJNCH PARSONAGS. 


^63 


regards himself as nothing better than a stop-gap. 
Evolution, that is the word he uses — he will explain 
its precise meaning to you — must gradually, but 
surely, bring about the supremacy of reason. But 
go on, dearest, you say you have been irrational. 
Now, I hope you are going to be common-sense itself.” 

“You will imderstand my conduct better some 
day,” Bertrande continued, “when I can explain 
everything. My case, remember, was not like your 
own. I was reared in a convent school. Catholi- 
cism was not only my religion, it became my ideal. 
I lived in the world, devotion saved me from becom- 
ing altogether selfish and worldly. I tried to be pure- 
minded, high-souled, sinless ” 

She fiung off her friend’s arms, rose to her feet 
and cried with a look of passionate, self-pitying hor- 
ror, “And failed. What escape, what expiation 
seemed possible except through the Church ? Do not 
ask me to tell you more now. Only help me to be 
strong, reasonable, happy ! I must leave you, my 
dear, kind, generous friend. The soft, idle, pleasant 
existence you offer under your roof, would enervate 
rather than fortify, would force me back on myself 
and on useless regrets. I should remain morbid, 
visionary, no fit companion for sunny natures like 
your own. Find me some calling, something to 
occupy my hands and mind.” 

“We will hear what Evelard says. He must be 
back soon,” was the encouraging reply. 

Betrande said no more. Making a tremendous 
effort at self-mastery, she seemed to yield. For the 
moment her powers of resistance were spent. 


254 


TBE ROMANCE OE 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

TEANSFOEMATION. 

Festive lights blazed from the chateau windows, the 
place resounded with music and song. Amid her 
guests, the embodiment of French geniality and light- 
heartedness, moved Georgette Delinon. 

She had put on a white dress for this little fete^ the 
last, perhaps, she said to herself, that ^he should 
ever give. There seemed appropriateness in wearing 
white. Love in her case, meant sacrifice. She cared 
more for Evelard than for anything else in the world, 
but for his sake she was renouncing all else she cared 
for, of her own free will, abjuring the happy past 
almost as completely as a mm taking perpetual vows. 
A week or two later and she should be in the position 
of an epicure who had pledged himself to Spartan 
fare for the remainder of his days . Exquisite cookery, 
in other words, society, is mere vanity and vexation 
of spirit, fits of indigestion are inevitable, to the gour- 
met, yet how will he stomach beans and bacon ? She 
was about to bid adieu to fashion which loved and 
fiattered her, to pleasure which she could still enjoy 
with the zest of a child, above all, to that careless 
freedom, hitherto unfettered by another’s will. The 
prospect, far from dismaying, made her grow more 
and more elate. 


A FBmcS PABSOITAGF, 


255 


“ I feel young, so young ! ” she confided to Ber- 
trande. “ My niece, Marthe, and that little twelve 
year old Jane Mary, are grandmothers by comparison ! 
How I pity women who are always wise, who cannot 
feei:^ 

The proposed 'New Year’s festivities had been 
given up on Evelard’s account. It was only natural 
that he should now wish his marriage to take place 
unostentatiously, but until then, whilst still Georg- 
ette Delinon, she could without impropriety indulge 
in a little social distraction. Evelard too remained 
away, the date of his return was uncertain. So with 
the utmost possible dispatch she had organized a 
charming entertainment, the only drawback being 
the paucity of the audience. To mvite the village 
folks was, under the circumstances, unadvisable, but 
Georgette was never at a loss. Two or three ac- 
quaintances were waylaid on their journey from Paris 
to Arcachon, a notary and his wife to whom she had 
been introduced by letter, invited from Niort, Pastor 
Bourgeois brought his mother and sister ; these, with 
the servants, made up the public, the performance 
being a little pastoral play in which Bertrande, 
Marthe, Jane Mary, Jeunet and the young pastor 
took part. 

What medicine so healing to a sick spirit as share 
in some busy, wholesome, animated life? What 
tonic so invigorating as spontaneous, pleasant inter- 
course, the fellowship engendered of hospitalities 
partaken of in common, the various social duties 
incumbent upon the guests as well as host ? 

With every day of cheerful common things, Ber- 


THE ROMAKCE OE 


256 

trande had regained healthfulness of body and mind. 
Jennet too, proved a cheerful counsellor. He was 
now an educational agent, and promised to find her 
a situation as governess in England. 

“The English are queer beings, so many lunatics 
I regard them,” he said, “ with their tea-pots and 
travelling baths, and hats glued to their heads. I 
don’t believe an Englishman ever takes off his hat 
from his cradle to his grave ! But they have money. 
They live a nomad life like the Bedouins. Get into 
an English family and you will travel to the moon 
itself. The best thing you can do is to return to 
Paris with me. My wife will take you in. No bet- 
ter time of the year for getting a place ! Rich 
Milords with half-a-dozen young Misses apiece, pass 
through Paris on their way to the south every day. 
The Boulevards swarm with them.” 

The prospect of going to Paris, in other words, of 
leaving St. Gilles before E velar d’s return, did more 
than anything else to give Bertrande cheerfulness 
and self-possession. 

Only to get away ! To meet Evelard no more ! 
Pass a few busy, taskful years, come and go a few 
brief seasons of stimulating activity and wholesome 
intercourse, then she could hold out an untrembling 
hand to Georgette’s husband and forget the lover 
in the friend ! 

Next to Jeunet’s comfort came the ineffable con- 
solation of music. Art, no more than spiritual life, 
can resist the chilling infiuence of repression. Like 
an oak tree planted in a crystal bowl — to use Goethe’s 
famous simile applied to Hamlet — the soul, if a soul 


A I'RENCB PARSONAGE. 


267 


indeed, that is to say, inceptive of poetry and exalta- 
tion, must have room to grow ! And just as this 
faculty of growing is inseparable from the natural, 
religious and healthful condition of any human 
character, so artistic tastes, intuitions, perceptions, 
call them what we will, wither to the root, shrivel 
to nothing, unless they breathe the air of freedom. 

“ In the convent music afforded me no real con- 
solation, it was only the expression of despair,” she 
said to her friend. “ The tortured, enfeebled victim 
was not fagged, that is all. But had I once allowed 
this to be seen, had I confessed that singing gave 
me the slightest relief, I should have been straight- 
way silenced, for once and for all. Thus subtle, 
thus malignant, thus pitiless is the inquisition of 
the cloister ! ” 

The audience Georgette had gathered, metaphori- 
cally speaking, from the highways and byways, was 
a fairly representative one of French provincial 
society and in striking contrast with the entertain- 
ment provided for them. 

Whilst the little pastoral play or operetta was 
fanciful, naive, romantic as an episode of D’Urfey’s 
Astree or Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, the specta- 
tors belonged to the rank and file of humanity ; they 
had sucked in Corneille and Racine with mother’s 
milk, knew La Fontaine by heart and held Victor 
Hugo in profound esteem. Of poetic emotion, aes- 
thetic enjoyment or insight into the half-hidden, 
half-stifled, yet to some, the most real side of life, 
they were not so much as dimly conscious. But 
lovers’ joys and sorrows put into sweet music, pretty 
17 


258 


TME BOMANCE OE 


costumes, a suggestion, however faint, of the Opera 
Comique, afford easy distraction. The occupants of 
the front row of chairs, listened and looked on with- 
out any danger of nodding, a fine comphment in its 
way, after all. 

Foremost sat the notary of Mort and his wife. 
The French peasant loves litigation, and the French 
notary, as a natural consequence, is generally rich. 
The portly prosperous man of law who had accepted 
Georgette’s invitation was ready for any call upon 
his powers of endurance when he had once dmed, 
and to dine in France is to dine in earnest. 

Now that the turning pomt of the day was over 
and neither whist nor ecarte were in prospect, he 
made up his mind to he bored, but even that may be 
done amiably. So he sat with arched eyebrows, 
lips curling upward, on the alert to say something 
agreeable. Bulwer Lytton wittily observed that no 
well-dressed woman looks ugly, a saying as consola- 
tory to the sex as those of the Gospel itself. He 
might have added that no well-dressed woman looks 
underbred. Why will a half-educated French- 
woman pass muster anywhere ? Because her dress 
is unexceptionable. 

The notary’s wife belonged to the old-fashioned 
school. Reared in a provincial convent, she had 
been taught to regard knowledge, outside the domes- 
tic sphere, as essentially a man’s province ; women 
meddling with it, were so many monkeys filching 
red-hot chestnuts. But with the rest of her country- 
women she could skilfully conceal alike her igno- 
rance and her prejudices. 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


■ 259 


She saw a dozen things here that shocked, heard a 
dozen that she did not understand, no one was the 
wiser. The volumes of Yoltaire and Renan lying 
on the table, the sparkling talk of Jennet, mostly on 
thorny topics, universal laicization, Darwinism and 
and so forth, were encountered without the suspi- 
cion of a frown or disapproving glance. Rather hard 
looking, yet invariably affable, untravelled, little used 
to society, Madame Pichon was never at a loss . Self- 
possession, indeed, by some subtle, inexplicable pro- 
cess, has filtered through all stages of French 
society. 

The family party intercepted on their way to 
Arcachon, consisted of a retired colonel, his wife and 
grown-up son. The former had spent twenty years 
in Algeria, bringing back lively reminiscences of 
earthquake, pestilence, pillage and insurrection, and 
what was more valuable, constitutions well seasoned 
as ship timber. The son was going through the last 
stage of that process from which, strange to say, 
often emerge fine, generous, manly characters. A 
fetish in babyhood, an idol throughout childish years, 
petted, spoiled, befooled, the French boy, wonderful 
to say, still survives the ordeal and becomes a man. 

The colonel’s son, being engaged to be married, in 
other words, to a dowry of four hundred thousand 
francs, was now treated by both father and mother 
with affectionate severity and jealous watchfulness. 

“ Our Albert has had his fiing with the rest,” 
observed the fond another complacently, the French 
mother, alas ! too often approving of the so-called 
“ fiing.” “ What else can we expect ? But as his 


260 


THE ROMANCE OF 


father tells him, there is a season for everything ; the 
head of a house, the husband and father to be, must 
respect himself.” 

If the regenerating prospect metamorphosed the 
young man in his parents’ eyes, still more complete 
was the change that had taken place in his own. The 
curled, perfumed dandy, able to play the pianoforte, 
flirt in French-English, dance to perfection, write 
comedies, was no longer a mbre drawing-room para- 
gon, but a man of business and importance. Instead of 
discussing the last new play or novel, he now gave 
his mind wholly to his profession, politics, the money 
market and municipal affairs. Called to the bar, he 
was about to purchase a practice in some large town 
where he intended to play a distinguished part. 
With him, as with every other Frenchman, the flrst 
step to social distinction was a discreet marriage. 

Young Lavergne was an agreeable, well-mannered, 
amiable fellow enough ; he must, however, show off 
his various accomplishments, chatting in French- 
Englkh with Jeunet, rattling off a variation in 
Lohengrin, arguing knotty points with his future 
father-in-law. It is wonderful what dignity is im- 
parted to a French dandy by this relationship, all 
other earthly honours sink into insigniflcance beside 
it. A mother-in-law may be regarded as a tax, a 
father-in-law as a premium upon marriage in France. 
Pastor Bourgeois’ mother and sister, the former 
wearing the high blonde coiffe of La Vendee, showed 
far more interest in the evening’s proceedings than 
the others. To them, everything was new, the 
arrangement and etiquette of the dinner-table, the 


A FBENCH PABSONAGE 


261 


abundance of furniture, the well-filled bookshelves, 
— m French farm-houses books are no more seen 
than Egyptian mummies — the general' arrangement 
— all these things were absolute novelties to the pair, 
yet beyond a certain naive interest and curiosity, 
there was no trace of provincial bringing up. They 
had quitted their cider-making and dairy- work to 
take part in what to them was a brilliant festivity. 
The thought of their possible awkwardness or inferi- 
ority never for a moment disturbed their enjoyment. 

To invite the village-folk en masse had been out of 
the question, but Georgette was under the necessity 
of filling her room. So in the background were the 
gardener and porter, with their wives, children and 
“ any acquaintance they wished to bring,” thus the 
invitation had been worded, the result being a 
goodly audience. 

Bertrande’s story was of course one of those dead 
secrets whispered into every ear, women’s secrets for 
the most part belonging to a figure of speech called by 
grammarians, oxymoron, in other words, they are and 
are not. The circumstance piqued general curiosity 
and perhaps more than anything else, contributed to 
the animation of the company. It was no stimulating 
audience but the actors needed no spur. Nothing 
could exceed the enthusiasm with which they entered 
into the spirit of the piece. To the two men, 
Marthe and Jane Mary, the experience was novel, to 
Bertrande the living over again a passionately joyous 
episode. 

This very part had been played by her years ago 
in Evelard’s presence, whilst yet her love for him 


262 


THE ROMANCE OF 


remained a dimly recognized, half acknowledged 

joy- 

On the threshold of life, the world enticing as a 
fairy garden, herself a princess called to reign there, 
wrong, suffering and despair seemed far off, unreal ; 
Evelard’s friendship, Evclard’s affection, uncon- 
sciously filled her heart, her life. She had acted for 
him, sung to him that day ; in unthinking gaiety 
and innocence, a child’s love not being purer than 
her own. 

“ Let me to-night forget all else,” she now said to 
herself, “the trembling horror, the crushing self- 
humiliation with which I owned the truth and con- 
templated my sin. I loved a priest and was beloved 
in return ! From that moment, ardent Catholic as 
I was, I could only think of penitence and expiation. 
The long years of bitter atonement are gone by. 
Evelard is separated from me as before. For one 
brief moment, I will live over again a blissful, 
unclouded past, that was his and mine ! ” 

So she allowed herself to be dressed in the self- 
same Watteau costume she had worn then, smiling 
as the transformation went on, feeling at last, as 
she looked, the Bertrande of old. 






A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 


263 


CHAPTER XXX. 

IDYLLIC. 

A CHARMING scene awaited Georgette’s guests 
when, after an overture of pianoforte and violin the 
curtain rose. Stage scenery, representing a forest 
glade in midsummer, had been hired from Roy an. 
Here, under spreading oaks, Damon and Phyllis, 
Cory don and Sylvia, Jeunet and Bertrande were 
surprised in a rustic dance, swains and damsels 
wearing the fanciful but rejuvenating costume of 
Louis Quinze. Wonderfully youthful looked Jeunet 
as he lustily footed the measure, the apple- green of 
his broad lappeled coat, knee-breeches and silk stock- 
ings contrasting with Pastor Bourgeois’ quieter 
tints of cream- colour and mulberry. Marthe, as a 
bride-elect, must of course wear white, her broad- 
brimmed chip hat showing myrtle blossoms, with 
long pointed bodice and short distended skirt of 
white satin ; that curtailed petticoat and the 
opportunity thus afforded of displaying her neat 
ankles, made Marthe frisky as a young kitten. For 
the first time in her life she played the coquette, 
and flirted teazingly with her betrothed. 

Bourgeois indeed was divided between two ad- 
mirations. First he glanced at Marthe’s ankles^ 


264 


THE BOMANCE OF 


then at his own, his stalwart shapely limbs marvel- 
lously advantaged by cream-coloured silk stockings 
with mulberry clocks. Nothing puts us into 
better humour with the world and ourselves than 
the consciousness of approval, no matter the unimpor- 
tance of the deed or quality approved. These three 
showed an exhilaration Bertrande could not share, 
yet Georgette gazed in growing wonder. Her 
friend’s fornur loveliness and sparkle had come 
back as if by magic. 

“ Does it not seem incredible ? ” she whispered to 
the colonel’s wife. “ Yesterday a mere shadow, 
ghost of her former self, to-night the beautiful, 
joyous girl of eight years ago.” 

“ If only her fortune were not gone ! I could 
th^n have married her to-morrow,” was the reply. 

“ Officers are no longer compelled to seek a 
dowry with their wives. The thing is still feasible,” 
put in the colonel. 

No daintier impersonation of a Watteau shep- 
herdess could be seen than Bertrande, as she 
now moved through the rustic dance. Under her 
broad-brimmed Tuscan hat, garlanded with roses 
and lined with rose-coloured silk, her cheeks glowed, 
her blue eyes shone, her lips parted in a smile. 
The dress of pale pink brocade, not hooped and 
short like Marthe’s, but falling in graceful folds, 
lent dignity to the slender figure ; the kerchief of 
rich white lace carelessly knotted about the throat, 
the long, close-fitting sleeves and lace ruffies, partly 
concealing the hands, were all touches that com- 
pleted the picture. 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


265 


June itself, existing in its rose-bud stage, were 
here personified, but with a nameless charm, an 
indescribable staidness and reserve we are accus- 
tomed to associate with maturer summer. Whilst, 
too, her companions were mere picturesque figures 
that might have stepped from the boards of Opera 
Comique, Bertrande’s appearance was wholly in- 
artificial. The loveliness, the sparkle, the grace, 
seemed to belong to her, part indeed of herself. As 
some dainty apparition of romance, denizen of far- 
off fairy-land alighted on the common world to 
dazzle for a moment then disappear, she now 
moved before her enchanted audience, the centre of 
attraction. The sprightly music, the piquant lib- 
retto, the spirited acting of the others, became of 
secondary interest. All eyes were magnetized 
towards the delicious nymph in rose-colour, all 
followed her graceful movements with the silent 
homage ever accorded the phenomenal. 

In the midst of the dance a little girl rushed from 
behind the trees with a cry of alarm. This was 
Jane Mary, who high-heeled, hooped, crook and 
basket in hand, from which dropped the flowers as 
she ran, looked the most theatrical little figure 
imaginiible. If Marthe and her lover felt proud of 
their ankles, still more proud felt Jane Mary of 
herself as a whole. Her satisfaction would have 
been displeasing but for its excessive comicality. 
The little woman planted her crook on the ground, 
posed so as to display to best advantage blue satin 
shoes and stockings, blue and white frock puffed 
out like a Japanese lantern, and peaked hat a la 


266 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Pompadour, with an aplomb delightful to behold. 
From a tragedian in the matter of self-possession 
she had nothing to learn. In a shrill but not 
unmusical treble she now informed Corydon that 
Damon’s goat had broken through his fences again 
and were playing havoc with the green clover. 
Thereupon ensued an angry diiet between the two 
swains. 

“ The same old story,” quoth Corydon, “ ever and 
ever, your cattle trespassing on my pastures ! ” 

“ And whose the fault ? ” retorted Damon fierily. 

“Goats require looking after as weU. as human 
beings. Your goatherd,” here he points derisively 
to Jane Mary, “you see what she has been about, 
gathering wild flowers instead of minding her 
flocks.” 

An altercation ensues. The two ' men come to 
blows, their betrothed endeavouring vainly to 
appease them. The high voices of the lovers, the 
alarmed cries of the maidens the little girl’s 
screams, summon to the spot a group of super- 
numeraries— Georgette’s serving-folk, dressed as 
villagers and rustic guardians of the peace. Amid 
the wildest confusion Damon is unceremoniously 
dragged off to prison. 

A charming pathetic scene now ensues. Sylvia, 
of course, takes the part of Corydon, whilst the 
proud Phyllis deigns to intercede for her lover. The 
duet concluded, Sylvia remaining hard and almost 
cynical, Phyllis pours out all her love, sorrow, and 
anxiety in a last appeal. A word from Sylvia and 
Corydon will relent, will spare his old playmate and 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


267 


near neighbour the disgrace of prison, and avert 
a life-long feud between two who once loved each 
other as brothers. Sylvia shows no signs of giving 
way. 

“Then,” sang Phyllis, “you convince me that 
you have never loved ; you show that love has no 
real meaning for you. If you loved indeed, you 
could not endure the notion of your beloved com- 
mitting an ungenerous or unworthy act. His reputa- 
tion would be dearer to you than your own ; his 
nobility of character the very touchstone and 
measure of your love ! ” 

It was in this song that Bertrande surpassed her- 
self now as she had done on a similar occasion eight 
years before. Her sweet, rich, carefully-trained 
voice was never heard to greater advantage than in 
a song, simple in itself, yet full of gravest, tenderest 
meaning. As she sang, her features, even gestures, 
gained elevation from the uplifting, moving words, 
whilst the most careless of her listeners was moved 
to tears. And now, as then, Bertrande thought 
only of E velar d ! His image was ever present. She 
seemed singing to him, as she was singing of him. 
That little song with its passionate refrain — “ Love 
can only exist with honour. The honour of those we 
love should be dearer than life itself,” — contained 
her life- story and his own ! 

Just then, the audience listening spellbound, 
the volume of sweet, passion- laden song filling the 
room, Bertrande’s figure conspicuous on the bril- 
liantly-lighted stage, Evelard appeared in the door- 
yray. No one observed his coming but Georgette— 


268 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Georgette, in her capacity as mistress of the cere- 
monies, compelled to be on the alert ; here, there, 
and everywhere at the same time. The outer door 
of the double drawing-room — the upper being turned 
into the stage— had been left open and curtained off, 
so that any late comer might steal to a back seat 
without causing interruption . Here, partly concealed 
by the arras, stood Evelard now, if, indeed, it were 
Evelard’s self ! 

“ He recognizes her at last ; it is only natural that 
he should look astounded ? ” thought Georgette. 

She waited a moment, leaving time for him to get 
over his surprise, watching his face with keenest in- 
terest, soon with painful surmise, in turn to become 
agonized conviction. 

Evelard gazed, hut not only as one confronted by 
ghostly vision, who sees before him some phantom 
risen from the tomb. 

The change that now came over him was still 
more radical. It was as if he had suddenly become 
a phantom to himself, being drawn by an influence 
too strong to resist, far away from his own actuality 
and surroundings. An individuality unknown to 
Georgette stood there in Evelard’s place. Alike the 
priest, her friend, and the pastor, her betrotlied, had 
vanished. In the lightning flash of her unerring 
woman’s instinct she now saw the naked soul, the 
soul that belonged to another ! 

In the living Bertrande he had recognized his 
buried love. Here, then, was the key to his char- 
acter and history. The man had conquered the 
priest 5 in turn, the priest had, trampled the man uu- 


A PHENOL PARSONAGE. 


26 ^ 


der foot. Evelard’s triumph over himself had been 
complete ; she could now measure the cost. It was 
the memory of Bertrande that rendered him so in- 
different to life, so slow to accept affection, so irre- 
sponsive to pleasant things. And she thought, now 
y^ith feverish eagerness leaping from one conclusion 
to another, another mystery at the same time be- 
came crystal clear. Bertrande had loved iii return 
— loved a priest — that priest her confessor ! 

Could any pure-minded, religiously-trained girl 
endure such a position? Would not the cloister 
offer the only refuge ? Where else could she fitly 
expiate such sorrow and such shame ? 

But no tiine was there to pause and think now. 
The claims of society must he first listened to, her 
own heart when leisure came. Smiling as if nothing 
had happened she moved a step nearer and uttered 
a word of greeting. 

Evelard neither saw nor heard, the only sight and 
sound of which he was conscious now being Ber- 
trande’s image, Bertrande’s voice. His expression 
of dazed incredulity and wonder changed to exqui- 
site joy and adoring love. Blind, deaf, insensible to 
all else, he seemed to drink in every look and tone. 

Again Georgette called him gently by name a 
second time without attracting his notice. Then 
she laid one little gloved hand on his arm. “ I ought 
to have told you. The refugee is Bertrande,” she 
said in a gentle voice. 

He turned round greatly agitated. The spell was 
broken. Her voice recalled him to realities. 

« Strange that I knew her not,” he murmured, 


270 


THE nOMANCE OF 


his gaze still fascinated to the radiant figure on the 
stage. “ And yet and yet,” he added, as if speaking 
to himself, “ there were reminders, her eyes, her 
voice — ” Quite unable to recover self-possession, 
he drew back hastily. “Excuse me, dear friend, 
I did not know that you had guests. We shall see 
each other to-morrow.” 

“Yes, to-morrow,” replied Georgette, with a little 
suppressed sob he did not perceive. Had she wept 
aloud, fainted, screamed, would he have been the 
wiser? she asked herself bitterly. 

She followed him out into the corridor. “You 
are well, your journey has proved successful?” she 
asked, his absence of mind and only partial con- 
sciousness of her presence, forcing her back ui)on 
womanly pride, freezing her into momentary mdif- 
ference. 

“Adieu now, you shall hear my news another 
time,” he replied with a smile. 

But what a smile ! Georgette returned to her 
salon smiling also. No one should guess that her 
light laughter and mirthful sallies hid a wounded 
spirit, and heart suddenly made desolate. 


A i*b:encb parsobagb. 


271 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

HEARTS LAID BARE. 

Benignant goddess, presiding over household 
tasks of the daintier sort ! how many drooping 
spirits hast thou uplifted, how many aching hearts 
soothed, gnawing sorrows laid to rest? On thy 
modest altar flicker no perpetual flames, thy coronet 
should be of wayside flowers, for thy votaries are 
inglorious. Yet no heaven -born guardian of the 
human race has scattered more lavish blessing, 
earned heartier thanksgiving. For in thee, goddess 
of neatness, grace and order, is typifled the home ; 
that palladium of man’s affection and woman’s 
honour ; that sure sanctuary of the weary, the 
lonely, and the oppressed! A femmine soul sick 
unto death may be cured by the task of laying 
down a new carpet or preparing for guests. 

Next morning Bertrande was busied in arranging 
Georgette’s boudoir with quite a cheerful face. 
Warm sunshine flooded the room. To have anything 
to do was delightful to her; but to be asked to 
arrange books and music enchantment. Flowers 
she looked on sadly. Flowers, certainly, were not 
shut out of the cloister ; but is it not the living who 
need them, rather than the dead ; troubled mortals 


272 fSE ROMANCE OE 

rather than waxen images ? The rest of the party- 
had driven to Royan to see off the Arcachon travel- 
lers, visitors from Bordeaux. 

“You are tired; better by far for you to stay at 
home. Do put things straight for me ? ” 

Thus saying, with rather a jaded and meaning 
look Bertrande thought. Georgette had left her. 
Joyfully she set about her task; only to be 
serviceable to this generous, self-sacrificing friend, 
she mused as she put back one object after another 
in its place ! The moments fieeted by no longer 
leaden-footed, each a little hour, each hour a day, 
each day a dreary lifetime* in the convent. The 
mere handling of pretty, suggestive things thrilled 
her with pleasure. A book of engravings, a new 
volume of poetry -and romance, artistic little nothings 
that seem indigenous as daisies in France, all these 
were sighed over, smiled at, kissed. Life was sweet 
when life indeed, even if touched with sorrow. 

On a sudden, without warning, unannounced, the 
door opened, and there stood Evelard. 

“ Madame Delinon — I expected to find her ? We 
had made an appointment,” he stammered. 

“ She should surely be back by this time. I will go 
and see ! ” Bertrande contrived to get out, making 
for the door as she spoke. 

Each wished to spare the other — and Georgette. 
Loyalty to their leal friend, their all, forbade con- 
fidence. But the opportunity of interchanging a few 
words was irresistible. They were together. No 
one was by. For the last, perhaps only time, they 
stood face to face. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


273 


As the girlish figure in simple grey dress ap- 
proached with fiuttering, bird- like movements, he 
barred her passage. 

“Nay,” he said smiling — this time a smile indeed ! 
— “ stay a little while.” 

He held her out at arm’s length and gazed on the 
sweet picture, with every glance new happiness 
lighting up his face, irradiating his whole being. 

Bertrande had insisted upon discarding all but 
the plainest attire. A young woman compelled to 
seek her fortunes in the world, she said, ought to 
wear sober colours and homely, durable stuffs. Yet 
no costly gown, chef -d'‘ oeuvre of Parisian-made 
milliner could better have become her slender, 
graceful figure and fair, spiritualized face than this 
Quakerish costume of dove-coloured homespun. 
For some women, Georgette among these, the silk 
worm spins, the loom hums all day long, the artist in 
clothes invents marvels of skill and shade. Bertrande 
belonged to another category. Inborn exquisite 
French neatness and appropriateness were all she 
needed to look her best. 

Amazing was the change effected by a week or 
two of natural, affectionate. Heaven- ordained life. 
The look of intense pathos and patience of one who 
has wrestled with self, grief and privation, emerg- 
ing from the contest victorious, was there still, also 
the expression of spirituality, of a craving for some- 
thing higher, purer, better than the mere com- 
fortable existence of every day. 

The sallowness and attenuation of the fugitive had 
disappeared, a delicate bloom of health, animation 
18 


274 


THE ROMANCE OF 


and cheerfulness embellished and rejuvenated ; her 
bright short hair waving about her temples added a 
look of youth. 

“ The very same, the Bertrande of old ! ” he mur- 
mured, smiling dreamily ; « changed, of course, yet 
her old self, like none other. How could I be so 
blind at first ? Ah ! Bertrande, they told me long 
ago you were dead. Was it at your bidding ? ” 

She crimsoned, faltered, and looked on the floor. 

“ I wanted to be forgotten. I felt that I must be 
hateful to others as to myself. Heaven forgive me 
the deception.” 

“ Poor child, poor child ! So innocent, yet per- 
suaded into believing herself so guilty ! I was sorely 
perplexed also. The reminders were strong. Were 
there then, I asked, two Bertrand es ; the one con- 
signed to the tomb, the other, her counterpart, still 
flesh and blood. And myself — am I so altered then 
as to be wholly unrecognizable ? But I forget. I 
too wore a disguise.” 

“ The disguise deceived, but not wholly,” she said 
eagerly. “ I felt under a spell, in a dream. I, in 
turn, asked, are there two Evelards ? ” 

“ In one sense, yes,” he replied. “ I am, as you 
know, no longer the priest, the confessor. My old 
self in so far as convictions are concerned is dead for 
ever, buried in the tomb. But the man, the heart, 
remain unchanged, Bertrahde’s own — ” with trem- 
bling joy and almost incredulous looks as if indeed 
he could hardly believe the evidence of his senses, 
he added — “ Speak in turn, let me hear your voice. 
Open your own heart to me ? ” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


275 


“ What should I say ? ” was the low, passionate 
answer. “ You read my inmost thoughts now as 
always. I am not changed.” 

“ Nor could I in the respect change ever,” he said 
— his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “ I may 
tell you, now, you are a child no longer ; much suf- 
fering has made you wise, and the confidence does 
no one any wrong : hut for you, I should in all pro- 
bability be a priest still. I, your confessor — Heaven 
help me ! — your lover, examined not only my creed 
so-called but my calling. I said to myself, can it be 
rational, can it be that any man’s faith and 

profession should force him into such a position — 
that of confidant, accuser and judge of the woman 
he loves, and of whose love he is conscious ? I rea- 
soned further — can it be right, and, as a natural con- 
sequence, religious, that a girl’s innocent affection, a 
man’s h6nest passion, become criminal merely by 
virtue of human ordinances? Reason — another 
name for the soul — said, no and no and no ! you are 
both guiltless, the offence lies with that Church, 
that society, which brand you as culprits, distorting 
natural, wholesome, soul-regenerating affections into 
frailty and vileness.” 

He took one of her thin hands in his own, and 
raised it reverentially to his lips. 

“ Wipe away for once and for all those dreadful 
hallucinations from your mind. Confront reason 
and the truth. Recognize m yourself a conscience- 
endowed being, seek humour, sympathies and natural 
joys and you will not have suffered in vain.” 

How sweet his words of comfort and uplifting ! 


276 


THE BOMAnCE OE 


How sweet to him the old task of comforter and up- 
lifter ! The despair of final separation was as yet 
far off, each moment of perfect understanding and 
unfettered intercourse long as a year of pain and 
absence ! 

“ Like myself, you are a castaway, turned adrift 
on a cold world,” he went on, with deepening indig- 
nation. “ Oh, pitiless Church that should be merci- 
ful, thus do you parody the words of Scripture — God 
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. What farther 
indignity, what additional burden can you lay upon 
your victims ? Then your entire fortune went to 
the convent, my poor child ? ” 

“ Where else should it go ? ” she said humbly. “ I 
offered it by way of expiation.” 

“ It is monstrous, inhuman, thus to prey upon the 
credulity of impulsive, over-sensitive natures. Ber- 
trande — my beloved — for the last time hearken to 
me as to a spiritual adviser. Oh ! cast aside for once 
and for all these grovelling falsities. Break loose 
from teachings at variance with the elementary prin- 
ciples of truth and justice. Dare to be yourself a 
reflecting, reasoning, responsible being. In ministers 
of religion, henceforth recognize may be a friend, a 
guide, a helper ; but the guardian of your conscience 
never ! ” 

“ I am going to England ; I shall become a Pro- 
testant like yourself,” was the timid reply. 

“ Protestant, Romanist ! what signify such terms ? 
Study the life of Christ, create for yourself a church, 
a creed out of that. Ah, if I could only ” 

His indignation was spent, for a moment he buried 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 277 

his face in his hands. The desolation confronting 
both became suddenly very real. 

I was thinking, a foolish thought,” he said, “ how 
happy it would make me to discuss these questions 
with you. We should learn much from each other. 
But you are going to England ; it is a wise resolve 
” His voice trembled, broke down, then mas- 
tering himself, he went on, “ Home life in England 
is simple and wholesome ; you will make friends I 
hope, be very happy. Try to gain any knowledge 
you can, each fresh interest will make daily life 
brighter. Madame Delinon will write to you — ” 

He went on speaking very rapidly as if fearful of 
interruption, of not having time to say now what 
else must for ever be left unsaid. 

“You of course know it ; she has certainly told 
you that we two, you and I, are divided now, 
irrevocably as formerly, by the grating of the con- 
fessional. That noble woman, your best, truest 
friend and mine, commiserated my fallen fortunes, 
has accepted the hand of the outlaw, the scapegoat — 
an ex-priest is all these and more — we shall be 
married soon ” 

Bertrande bowed her head, tears falling on their 
clasped hands. 

“ So much you have learned from her own lips. 
Her disinterestedness, her generosity to myself you 
will never know. She is aware that long ago my 
heart was given to another, the name of that other 
let her not so much as guess. We must raise our- 
selves to the height of her nobleness and spare her 


278 the romance of 

feelings, as we know in a similar case she would 
spare our own.” 

Again Bertrande bowed assent, her lips murmur- 
ing inarticulate response. 

“ To-day, for a brief interval, we have again be- 
longed to each other. Heart has spoken to heart. 
To-morrow I am only your friend’s betrothed. N^ot 
a word, not a thought of yours or mine must betray 
that loyal heart. Our part will lie buried as in a 
deep grave, no tears bedewing it, no flowers mark- 
ing the spot.” 

So sorrowfully, even despairingly were the words 
uttered, that it was now Bertrande’s turn to comfort, 
uplift. 

“ Think of me as one who is happy, who asks no 
other happmess since you loved me,” she said smil- 
ing at him through her tears. 

“ And think of me as one whose loyalty to another 
is loyalty to yourself,” he murmured. “ Could I by 
so much as a thought render myself unworthy of 
her, your love would be turned to contempt. So 
now let us part.” 

Bertrande turned away with a half-suppressed 
sob. 

For a moment he stood irresolute. The light 
shone upon her fair hair as she leaned against the 
casement, her head bowed on her clasped hands, her 
slender figure shaken with grief. 

But he did not dare to comfort her, his own 
powers of self-control were spent. Taking up hat 
and stick, never once glancing back, he hurried down- 
stairs^ out of the house. She heard his quick tread 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 279 

on the gravel walk below, the old man-servant hob- 
bling after him. 

“ Madame expects you to breakfast, Mr. Pastor,” 
he said; but Evelard brushed by with hurried 
excuse. He would see his mistress later, he mur- 
mured, walking still faster than before. 


THE ROMANCE OF 




CHAPTER XXXII. 

OF THE WOELD, UNWOELDLY. 

Geoegette, apparently in her usual spirits, pro- 
posed lawn tennis af cer breakfast. Croquet, she said , 
was now out of date ; the new game seemed easy. By 
all means let the box of appliances from Paris be 
opened. 

“ What useful folks are those crack-brained folks 
of ours on the other side of La Manche,” said Jeunet. 
« Vive Le Sport ! say I for one. Let us have lawn- 
tennis to-day: golf — whatever that may be — to- 
morrow. Such innocent pastimes drive away ennu% 
foster morality, promote European peace. Why are 
revolutions unknown in the land of rosbif and 
plum -pudding ? Why is John Bull less addicted to 
running away with his neighbour’s wife than the son 
of Gaul ? Because muscular energy and the spirit 
of emulation are expended upon le Sport— -the name 
as well as the thing indigenous to British soil : be- 
cause, like the Greek of old, he cools his ardour in 
the Palestra. Lord's cricket-ground first, love after- 
wards, is the creed of the true born John Bull. So 
begin : instruct us, ladies, we also wish to be moral- 
ized.” 

Georgette and Marthe had already seen the game 
played, and amid much merriment, an attempt was 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


281 


made, when the mistress of the house having fairly- 
set things going, excused herself. She had a visit 
to pay, she said, glancing at Bertrande. 

What had happened that morning between the 
pair, Bertrande and Evelard? 

The girl’s face was unreadable. Without joining 
in the game, she seemed cheerful and more than 
ever anxious to please her friend in little things. 
Georgette’s wishes were studied, anticipated with 
an alertness that became distressing to the other. It 
was as if she felt conscious of having injured her 
friend and now sought every opportunity of making 
amends. 

Georgette turned away sadly. An Englishwoman 
under the circumstances would assuredly not have 
thought of her appearance — she would have taken 
the traverse leading to the parsonage without 
changing her garden hat. Agitated, in a condition 
of feverish suspense and changeful mind, the issues 
at stake of the weightiest. Georgette could never- 
theless permit herself no deviation from etiquette. 
Dressing herself unostentatiously but carefully, 
every item of her toilet challenging criticism safely 
as a sentence of Saint Beuve, she set out on her 
errand. No matter at what cost, she must obtain 
the truth, and learn how matters stood with these 
two beings, both so beloved, so cruelly handled by 
fortune, destiny, chance — call it by what name we 
will — the force directing human life. 

Evelard’s greeting was grateful, apologetic, almost 
painfully self-reproachful. 

“Pardon me for so abruptly quitting you last 


282 


THE ROMANCE OF 


night, dearest friend,” he began, “ and for not await- 
ing your return this morning. But I have much on 
my hands, as you see.” And so saying, he pointed 
to a litter of correspondence on the table. 

“ I interrupt,” Georgette stammered, hesitating to 
take the chair held out for her. 

“Not at all,” he replied. “ Whose visit, indeed, 
should be welcome if not your own? I have much 
to communicate, many points to discuss with you. 
My journey has been successful so far. I have 
vindicated my conduct before the Consistory of 
Toulouse.” 

“ I am very glad.” 

“ Heaven bless you for your sympathy ! I con- 
fess, the burden thus got rid of was no light one. 
Had I felt conscious of offence, I should of course 
have sent in my formal resignation at once. To do 
so were tantamount to a confession of guilt. It rests 
with my congregation whether I remain here or no. 
I am now summoning the elders of the church to a 
conference, and shall be guided by their decision.” 

“You prefer to stay?” asked Georgette, tenta- 
tively. She was trying to divine his thought. Alike 
looks, voice, manner were reassuring. He was calm 
almost to coldness. His pale face showed no sign of 
recent conflict. 

“ On the whole, yes. I feel in sympathy with the 
place and the people ; when this unfortunate misun- 
derstanding is cleared up, I feel sure of regaining 
their confldence. And the post is far from insignifi- 
cant. There are little Protestant groups scattered 
along the coast who have hitherto been whoUy de- 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


283 


prived of a pastor’s ministrations. I shall take these 
alternately, thus trying to keep such isolated con- 
gregations together, and to give vitality to what is 
now mere formalism — little more than a name.” 

He looked at her, smiling reproachfully. 

“ To state my own opinion, as my wife yours will 
remain no less inviolate than now. But I, you know, 
feel differently on such matters. I believe in the 
regenerating power of real religion ” 

“ If we can find it ! ” Georgette put in quickly. 
His self-possession, his reference to the future, his 
gentle raillery, disarmed suspicion. She felt as near, 
even nearer to him than before. Those terrible mis- 
givings of the previous night must then be chimera ! 
She had misinterpreted his agitation, taking surprise 
for dismay, affectionate interest for passionate, 
despairing love. This Evelard she adored was still 
her own ! 

“The mere seeking may answer as well. I am far 
from averring that attainment is practicable. But 
time enough for such discussions by and by. You 
have no objection to spend a few years at St. Gilles ? ” 
he asked, perusing her narrowly. 

Still in that happy mood of reassured hope and 
confidence. Georgette made answer — ^not eighteen- 
year-old maiden more artless, — 

“ As if I should object — with you.” 

The shy, tender, whole-hearted response had the 
effect of a blow on the listener. Evelard changed 
colour, winced ; his lips moved nervously. 

“ Oh,” he said, “ if you love me, be less kind. You 
humiliate, crush, unman me with a sense of my uu- 


284 


THE ROMANCE OF 


worthiness and of your own single-minded devotion ; 
vex me with feminine caprice, encroach upon my 
time, oppose yourself to my judgments, but do not 
be too kind.” 

It was now Georgette’s turn to change colour, 
wince and tremble. On her, too, fell a staggering 
blow. Hastening to undo the effect of his words, 
he added, — 

“ Dearest friend, forgive ! forgive ! I am wont, 
as you know, to speak hastily. When these anxie- 
ties are over, and daily life resumes its usual aspect, 
I shall once more be myself. My heart, as well as 
my mind, will be freer. The great happiness of 
your affection will become real and true. At pre- 
sent everything wears the aspect of illusion.” 

Georgette listened in silence, nerving herself to 
speak out. The moment had come. If a clear 
understanding was not arrived at now, to-morrow 
might be too late. 

As she sat thus wrestling with herself, two vis- 
ions, clear, many-phased, each strikingly contrasted 
with the other, flitted before her mind’s eye. Could 
she make the supreme sacriflce now demanded of 
her, forfeit a happiness hungered for so long, 
clutched at so eagerly, return to the empty, unsatis- 
fying life of every day ? And might she not be ex- 
aggerating Evelard’s feeling for Bertrande, misjudg- 
ing his present mood ? Might not the astoundment 
of the night before indicate a mere passing fancy? 
Could an impulsive, inexperienced girl satisfy the 
aspirations of such a man, offer him adequate sym- 
pathy and companionship ? 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


285 


So she reasoned, trying to persuade herself that 
her arguments were convincing, determined to speak 
out, yet hoping, almost believing that further expla- 
nation was unnecessary. 

And the more thoroughly she searched her own 
heart, the more impossible seemed separation. Oh, 
it could not be; Evelard loved her, nothing was 
changed. 

“ I spoke of illusion just now,” he said, as if read- 
ing her thoughts. “ One thing at least is true, un- 
mistakable as yonder sun shining in the blue hea- 
vens. If I spoke hastily under the crushing sense 
of my own unworthiness, forgive ! Your kindness, 
not only to myself but to others, puts many another’s 
religion to the blush. Here is a scripture all who 
run may read.” 

“ Kindness may be disservice too,” she began, 
speaking slowly and with great effort. “ I am not 
sure — are you quite sure that it is not so now ? Let 
us speak without reserve. Conceal nothing from 
me.” 

He looked up with an expression of pained surprise. 
. “ I took you into my confidence long ago,” he said. 
“ You then generously consented to ignore the past. 
Let it be forgotten.” But he saw that she had still 
something to say. Toying nervously with her 
parasol, downcast, , tears glistening on her eyelids, 
she faltered out, 

“And if you cannot forget ? ” 

“ Dearest friend,” he broke in, greatly agitated. 
“ Show yourself now magnanimous as heretofore. 
Do you not see how humiliating are these reminders? 


286 


THE BOMANCE OF 


how such memories crush me to the very dust? 
Help me to live in the present. I am weary of con- 
flict, I hunger for repose. Where shall I And peace 
if not by your side ? ” 

The little gloved hands still played nervously 
with the parasol, the lace veil still more palpably 
showed traces of tears. Evelard’s agitation but 
strengthened Georgette’s resolve. She was sum- 
moning all her powers of self-control : neither false 
sentiment on her part, nor an exaggerated sense of 
loyalty on his own should prevent a perfect under- 
standing. 

“ That is why I came to you now,” she began 
gently, growing calmer as she went on. “ I wanted 
to feel quite sure that we are not deceiving ourselves. 
Answer me one question, dear friend. On your 
reply ‘depends our future.” Looking on the ground 
she got out the remainder of her sentence. “ When 
our friend Jeunet came to me from you, he alluded 
— at your wish — ^to an early attachment. You in 
turn spoke to me of one you had loved years ago. 
Was that Bertrande ?” 

“ Must you of all others lay me on the rack ? ” he 
cried desperately. “ The sin — for sin it was — has 
been pitilessly expiated. We have both been pun- 
ished, heaven knows with what gruesomeness ! And 
we are strangers now as before, this unhappy girl 
and myself ; the convent bars could not separate us 
more.” 

“ But Bertrande is free, you are both free — and- 
you love her still, I feel it, I know it,” Georgette said ; 
then rising from her seat, lifting her tear- wet veil, 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


287 


and meeting his troubled looks undismayed, she 
added with tender, even passionate insinuation, “ You 
have yet to understand me, any true woman then ! 
If I love you ” — for a moment sobs hindered her from 
going on — “ is it hut another name for wishing you 
to be happy ? I must out with the truth. I guessed 
your secret — last night — when you stole into the 
drawing-room and recognized Bertrande. I spoke 
to you twice, you did not so much as hear me. You 
had only ears, eyes, for her. We women see clearly, 
you know. In some matters we are not to be 
deceived.” 

She drew off her gloves, took from the third finger 
of her. left hand the plain gold ring he had placed 
there before departure. Forcing it gently into his 
palm, she said, weeping as she spoke, “Never think 
that I shall reproach you, you have done me no wrong.- 
The fault is neither yours nor hers. It is my own. 
How foolish of me to think that I should ever really 
understand you ! I who have no religion, the poor, 
empty-headed worldling. But Bertrande is spiritual- 
minded. I see it all now, clear as daylight. With 
her you will be quite happy. She will not shock 
you with frivolities a dozen times a day, as I should 
do. The life of a country parsonage will suit her 
exactly. I wished to be your wife. I have always 
looked up to, admired you. It seemed glorious to 
give up amusement for your sake. But if I am 
disenchanted, disappointed, maybe unhappy, do not 
grieve. There is the world, it is good enough for 
me ! ” 

He had tried once or twice to interrupt her but 


288 ROMANCE OF 

she would be heard to the end. Then she turned to 
go. 

He followed her to the door, raised her hand to 
his lips, and suddenly breaking away, as if unworthy 
to pay such homage, cried, 

“ Do not say that you have no religion, I could 
kneel to you, true, grand, woman’s heart ! No per- 
jury of mine shall outrage it now. You force me 
into being true to myself. Oh ! irony of human fate, 
our guardian angels and good geniuses are ever those 
we most cruelly wound. Georgette pardon, forget ! ” 

She paused on the threshold to wring his hand, 
smile through her tears, then hurried away. 

She did not go straight home. Obeying a sudden 
impulse, she entered the little Carmelite convent. 
Only one or two lights burned here and there, and 
daylight was fast ebbing. 

Here she could weep unobserved. 

“ The world, the world ! ” 

As she recalled her words to Evelard, there came 
upon her a terrible sense of emptiness and desolation. 
No proud, self-respecting women could have acted 
otherwise ; her heart was lightened of a great burden, 
yet how welcome this solitude, this obscurity ! How 
welcome these tears ! 

“ What a pity that convents are really a failure, 
and that disappointed women cannot betake them- 
selves to religion as they used to do,” she mused. 
“I should make the worst nun imaginable ; but the 
sense of punishing oneself for folly would be so sooth- 
ing ! And the notion of preparing oneself for Heaven 
— for never-ending happiness — if one could only 


A FBENCB PABSOKAGE. 289 

grasp it, believe in it, the cloister might answer even 
for me ! ” 

Well, the illusion was over. Everlard had never 
loved her. The aspirations of the last few months 
could never he revived. The dream must remain a 
dream. 

It was the depth and uncommonness of Evelard’s 
character that had captivated her. Amusement and 
amateur philanthropy wearied at times. She had 
yearned in secret for a sincerer, more satisfying exis- 
tence. His confidence, his companionship, seemed to 
promise these. The very sacrifices in store for her as 
a pastor’s wife, the necessity of living after a homely, 
monotonous fashion, had enticed. She owned no 
religion. She did not feel the want of one. What 
she really needed was a moral stimulus, a standard ; 
and both had been within reach — till yesterday ! 

The world would bring a careless, makeshift hap- 
piness, and oblivion. She should fiy to society — 
what other refuge was open to her? She should, 
perhaps — who could say ? — accept the hand of some 
apparently congenial suitor. 

And, of course, Bertrande must be dowered as a 
younger sister. 

It was pleasant to think of being useful to 
Evelard’s future wife; “ After all,” she mused, as 
she dried her tears, “ the little good done by poor 
creatures like myself would very likely never be 
done by others. There is something in that.” 


19 


290 


THE BOMAJSrCE OF 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

BEOTHEK AND BROTHER. 

“ Then you stay in this Boeotia after all ? ” Jeunet 
said, a few days later as the pair sat down to break- 
fast in the parsonage. 

Brilliant sunshine flooded the room, yet the logs 
crackling on the hearth were very welcome. There 
was a touch of frost in the air, and the roses 
drooped. Beyond the garden the landscape was 
little changed. Here and there a ripple of gold 
lighted up the sombre masses of pine and ilex, but 
winter at St. Gilles succeeds summer as day fades 
into night with hardly perceptible stages of autumn 
and twilight. The tints of sky, sea, and shore 
remained bright and clear as before, only colder. 

“No; I am glad to say that the difficulties you 
know of have been satisfactorily explained. I prefer 
to remain.” 

“ There is much to be said on behalf of your choice. 
If a country pastorate is the frying-pan, living by 
one’s wits is the Are. I am already tempted to wish 
myself in your shoes. A house over your head, and 
two or three thousand francs a year, to quote Henri 
Quatre, are ‘ well worth a mass ’ ; we will say, in- 
stead, a sermon.” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


291 


“ I hope you contrive to make ends meet ? ” 

“ Lived the man or woman who accomplished that 
by his wits ? But I have other worries. My 
dear little wife — by the way, what an excellent ham 
— of local curing? — what was I saying? Ah! I 
have a sad story to tell you. But, first, a word or 
two about your own affairs ? So — no offence, I hope 
— your engagement with my charming hostess and 
benefactress is broken off, at least for a time ? ” 

“ Such is Madame Delinon’s wish.” 

“ I ask no questions. I can only say that I am 
very sorry. Let us hope matters will right them- 
selves in time. She is incomparable.” 

“ You were speaking of your wife,” Evelard put 
in, evidently wishmg to change the subject. “ I 
hope you have no serious differences with each 
other ? ” 

“Are any differences to be regarded as serious 
between husband and wife ? They invariably shake 
hands and become better friends than before. 
Divorced couples generally find they can’t live 
without each other. Unfortunately Suzanne — but I 
have so hiuch to tell you, I hardly know where to 
begin. That novel of mine ! — for the life of me I 
•cannot finish it. If I could, I feel sure my fortune 
were made. The story has reached such a climax. 
Its situations are so desperately entangled that any 
notion of clearing up everything well nigh turns my 
brain. I feel half demented when I think of it. 

“ Then why not leave it alone ? ” 

“Letting things alone, my dear friend, won’t 
keep the wolf from the door. How fortunate 


THE ROMANCE OF 


^92 

I should consider myself if I could afford to let 
everything alone ! But that blissful condition I 
must not so much as aspire to. Checks too — not of 
the kind good on a bank — always come in showers. 
The only regular occupation 1 had, a post Madame 
Delinon procured for me, I have now lost. You see 
we unfortunate ecclesiastics have received no busi- 
ness training, and the prejudices against men in our 
case are implacable. The tonsure is a second 
convict’s brand.” 

His listener smiled bitterly. “ I am not sure that 
the latter is regarded with as much disfavour,” he put 
in drily. “We are, however, allowed to live with- 
out police supervision.” 

“ That is certainly something,” Jennet replied, 
helping himself briskly to the crisp brown buck- 
wheat fritters. 

“You, fortunately, have a soul ; I — which is next 
best — an appetite, above such petty mortifications. 
A good, healthy, unfastidious appetite, my friend— 
there is the sovereign remedy for human ills. .Ah! 
my poor Suzanne ! ” ^ 

“I hope Madame Jeunet is not ill?” 

“On the contrary, in the best of health, quite 
aggressively robust, in fact ; a trifling ailment, tooth- 
ache, or nervous attack would prove greatly beneficial. 
Women never observe the golden mean. The dear 
creatures are either confirmed invalids, or, what is 
more trying. Hussars in petticoats. To proceed with 
my plans. Literature then not paying -” 

“ A half finished novel is hardly to be called 
literature.” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


293 


“fi'inished or unfinished, novels don’t pay, so all the 
publishers of Paris tell me. Fiction, they aver, has 
become — owing to competition — a second Panamn 
Canal, a Tonquin. My various agencies bring me 
in a few hundred francs from time to time. I also 
earn a little as supernumerary at hotels and offices. 
But I feel the want of an anchorage, some calling of 
a definite nature that would necessitate the putting 
forth of all my powers. Having cogitated the 
matter I have come to the conclusion that such a 
calling lies within reach, under my very nose — how 
fine the flavour of these potatoes cooked in wood 
ashes — and my little Suzanne, with all her faults was 
a capital cook, when she pleased. To resume — it 
has occurred to me then that the proper sphere of 
an ex-priest like myself, one who rejects revelation 
and dogma on scientific grounds, who, in other 
Words, cannot help seeing things through the eyes of 
Herbert Spencer, the proper sphere of such a man is 
that of intermediary between the Church and others 
similarly placed. He ought to constitute himself high 
priest — I should more modestly say — house porter 
of the debatable land, lying, like our old French 
^larches between two provinces, fact and fiction, 

ience and theology. How many younger brethren 
might thus be helped to an upright existence, how 
many doubting spirits withdrawn from the priest- 
hood? Hundreds, doubtless thousands, remain 
where they are simply because they would other- 
wise starve.” 

« That may well be true. Yet I hardly see how 


294 


THE BOMANCE OF 


you can come to the general aid. N'ot counsel only 
is needed, but money.” 

“ Money,” quoth Jeunet, almost derisively. “ Is 
not perfidious Albion the goose that lays the golden 
egg for all? A famine happens in China, an earth- 
quake at Timbuctoo, a pestilence in Patagonia, an 
inundation in Siberia. Straightway our Quixotic 
neighbours hand round the hat, gold pours in as 
when a state loan is raised here. And what are 
famine, earthquake, pestilence and inundation, com- 
pared to the sufferings of men like ourselves ? — men 
who wake up to find that their lives are composed of 
falsehood, their so-called duties the inculcation of 
grovelling superstition. My mind is made up ; I 
shall go to England, turn stump orator, plead the 
cause of the struggling French priesthood — and re- 
turn, never doubt it ! — as did Richelieu after his 
financial expedition, followed by trucks of gold.” 

The other shook his head. 

“ Charity like religion — especially in England — 
is wedded to tradition. To one who would help a 
priest unfrocked for conscience’ sake you will find a 
million ready to feed, clothe and set on his legs the 
first vagabond going.” 

“ My projects are not confined to mere material 
support. What I have chiefly in view is to rally 
men of my own way of thinking round a common 
centre, to form a brotherhood, a sect, a Church even, 
if you will, in harmony with science and the spirit 
of the age. Truth and justice form the basis of all 
moral government, should they not also become the 
corner-stone of spiritual dominion ? But we won’t 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE, 295 

argue on these questions. Retain your Protestant- 
ism, may it make you very happy ! Do not deny 
that others require something more.” 

“Or less,” remarked Evelard quietly. “I read 
your thoughts, my friend. I should stand half a 
head higher in your estimation were I like yourself, 
unencumbered with what you evidently consider 
superstitions. Frankly, I fail to realize your scheme. 
I do not see how a Church is to be founded except 
upon a religion, good, bad, or indifferent.” 

“ Between religion and religiosity there is a broad 
gulf,” put in Jeunet. “ Give me as much of the for- 
mer as you please ; defend me from the latter ! Bish- 
ops, priests, deacons, of my Church, we should find 
plenty to do, never fear. You will smile at me in 
turn, but I have often thought, my occasional services 
as male nurse suggested the notion, what a boon lay 
friars would be in our great hospitals for the sick ! 
A poor fellow goes there to die. He no more believes 
in the fables dinned into his ears by the attendant 
sister of mercy — ofttimes a sad misnomer ! — than he 
believes in hobgoblins. How would his end be 
cheered by a passage from the Phcedo^ the closing 
lines of the Republic ; or, to come down to our own 
day, a page or two of Jean Reynaud ? Ah ! you ap- 
prove of him^ I see. And agaiu, to be able to inter- 
change thoughts with a really enlightened, sympa- 
thetic mind ? Who on his death-bed, would not be 
thereby soothed a thousand times more than by 
litanies and ceremonials ? But we are getting too 
grave. See, I help myself to a glass of your liqueur 
in order to revive my spirits. The experiment Is 


206 


THE BOMANCE OF 


wortb making, anyhow, and I shall in all probability 
kill two birds with one stone. I am going to see 
some wine merchants at Bordeaux to-morrow, about 
selling wine on commission in England. And now 
that I have no ties — ah ! I have not yet told you — 
my wife has quitted me, for once and for all, so she 
declares.” 

“ I am very sorry to hear it.” 

“ I assure you it is not my fault,” poor Jeunet said 
very humbly. “ I did my utmost so make Suzanne 
happy ; in other words, supply her needs. Marriage 
to her, as to many another, meant only a purse to 
go to. She did not marry me, but board, lodging, 
washing and good clothes ! It seems that an uncle 
of hers, who is in Algeria and well to do there, having 
lost his wife, wants her to keep house for him ; 
wants, in fact, two women whom he can trust, to 
mind his dairy, kitchen garden and Kabyle servants. 
He offered me a home as well — on condition of course 
that I helped on the farm, an offer I respectfully de- 
clined. Suzanne, my mother-in-law and baby are 
already on their way.” 

“ I am very sorry that you have been compelled 
to part with your child.” 

Jeunet swallowed a tumblerful of water pinkish 
with wine, coughed, feigned a sneeze and replied,— 

“ The poor little creature was a perpetual bone of 
contention. I wanted to rear her according to mod- 
ern notions, Suzanne clung pertinaciously to day caps, 
late dinners and other abominations. But I have no 
(ioubt that my poor wife will learn wisdom. I quite 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


297 


expect the little party back before another year is 
out, and if my affairs were more flourishing, if I could 
give her all the money she wanted, we should live 
like the reconciled couples in English novels.” 

Both men flnished their meal in silence. That 
mention of the child had saddened Jeunet in spite of 
himself. His little daughter’s image called up most 
uncomfortable visions of disturbed nights and noisy 
days, of perpetual squabbles with his wife and 
mother-in-law. She was not winsome, as some 
babies are. Her propensity to scream was abnormal. 
Yet, as is often the case with very young children, 
she had ever showed a marked preference for her 
father. When no one else could soothe her, Jeunet 
had but to hold out his strong arms, recite in his in- 
comparably droll way the French version of Humpty- 
Dumpty, and straightway the sobbing would cease 
and smiles irradiate the tear-wet, distorted little 
face. Such memories pained him inexpressibly. 
He thought, too, of the training a la Spencer so dear 
to his heart, now sure to be abandoned, and the 
unwholesome regime substituted in its place, of her 
gradual forgetfulness of himself, yet he felt that 
even this was easier to bear than the struggles and 
dissensions of the last year or two. 

And as was only natural, he now lay even his 
domestic unhappiness at the door of the priesthood. 
Other men marry the wives of their choice and are 
happy. In the case of other men, narrow circum- 
stances and uncertain earnings would have been 
regarded quite differently. Suzanne could not for- 
give herself for having married an ex- priest. There- 


298 


THE BOMANGE OF 

in, he felt sure, lay the real source of discord and 
motive of her conduct. 

Evelard’s reflections were only a shade less bitter. 
To have caused Georgette pain seemed in his eyes 
little short of a crime. Her proud initiative humili- 
ated him to the dust. He could not tell a lie and 
say, “I love Bertrande ho longer.” 

The realization of his altered circumstances 
brought no bright looking forward. He was free. 
The love of his youth lived, her heart belonged to 
him as of old, nearer to each other they could hardly 
be. Yet how wide apart ! These gloomy retrospec- 
tions were suddenly interrupted. 

“ Who is your visitor ? ” asked Jeunet, as a lady 
wearing widow’s weeds walked up the garden 
path. 



j 


A FBENGB FABSONAGE. 


299 


CHAPTER XXXiy. 

MOTHERHOOD AND MILLINERY. 

There is a halo of poetry about French mourning 
which our own is wholly without. Unrelieved by 
a touch of white, widow’s weeds in France may yet 
prove becoming, nay, coquettish. The semi-trans- 
parent gauze veil flowing from head to foot lends 
an air of Sibylline mystery to the least ideal face 
and flgure. 

English widows wear a cheerful, often jaunty 
look; their French sisters in misfortune, never. 
With eyes downcast and features composed to a de- 
cent gravity, slowly and pensively they move un- 
der their long veils, the personiflcation of cruellest 
bereavement. Vulgarity, at least for the time be- 
ing, is eliminated. The English widow often repels 
sympathy ; the French one invariably calls it forth. 
Is the cause to be sought in millinery, artiflcial bring- 
up, the code civile which places the French relict at 
the mercy of her husband’s relations, or in a more 
sentimental, morbid temperament? Or must we 
suppose that the superlative qualities of French 
partners, as of so many other earthly blessings, are 
not discovered till too late ? Be this as it may, such 
are the facts. French widowhood symbolizes the 


300 


THE ROMANCE OF 


sable cloud without the silver lining. Beholders 
are moved to compassion as they gaze. 

On entering his salon, Evelard immediately re- 
cognized his visitor. The sedate little personage, 
now able to meet his gaze unabashed, was no other 
than his fellow passenger to the lighthouse during 
the storm of a few weeks before. So altered, rather 
so apparently altered was she to-day, as to look 
precisely what she affected to be, the neatest, de- 
murest, most circumspect middle-class widow im- 
aginable. Compromising antecedents were kept out 
of sight. Looks, deportment, attire were in accord- 
ance with the most rigid propriety. 

“ Pastor,” she began, bringing out a httle black- 
bordered handkerchief for the tears to come, “ I 
have made this journey in order to supplicate your 
intercession. You see before you, no longer the 
adventuress of a few weeks ago, but a respectable, 
well-conducted woman, the fittest person, surely, to 
be entrusted with the care of her own child ? ” 

“It is not to me but to your child’s guardians 
you should address yourself,” Evelard replied. “ I 
am wholly powerless in the matter. Pray under- 
stand me,” he added hastily. “ If I could help you, 
not to the indulgence of a sudden caprice, not at the 
expense of an innocent child’s best interests, the 
service should be rendered gladly ; but the ditacul- 
ties are great.” 

“The greatest is already removed,” she put in 
eagerly. “ I am tired of an uncertain position, and 
of damaging relationships. I wish to begin life 
afresh,” 


A t'UEnCM PAUSONAGE. §01 

“ Alas ! an excellent resolve does not straightway 
fit us for grave responsibilities.” 

“From whom should I look for encouragement if 
not from a minister of religion ? Is it Christian, is 
it human, to cast a poor woman adrift, because she 
has once succumbed to temptation ? ” 

“ I was thinking oi your child, not of yourself,” 
Evelard replied. “ Here is my hand. I am ready 
to take you at your word. I blot the past from my 
mind; but the guardians appointed by your late 
husband will require more substantial guarantees 
than mere expressions of amendment. Have you 
any to give ? ” 

“ I will live here under your eye, anywhere they 
choose, provided I can have the child. I don’t know 
how it is, Mr. Pastor, but it is this,”— here she 
pointed to her wedding ring — “ that seems to have 
changed everything. We had a quarrel about it, 
when I got back to Paris, my — my friend and I. He 
quizzed, tormented, finally insulted me, and I quitted 
him in a pet. My mind is made up. I shall start a 
little business somewhere, and live honestly till the 
end of my days. What I want is my child. The wed- 
ding-ring has made me feel differently about her.” 

Evelard eyed the speaker narrowly. There was 
not a trace of sentiment in her face, not a change of 
colour, not a tremor in the voice, yet he could hardly 
doubt her sincerity. And, he reasoned with him- 
self, how little ofttimes, may maternal affection have 
to do with sentiment ? How far removed from ten- 
derness may be even conscientious motherhood ! This 
woman evidently felt the natural interest of a parent 


302 


TSE ROMANCE OF 


in her own child, hut it was interest of a very practi- 
cal kind. She regarded herself as the fittest person 
to he entrusted with her care, dress, and bringing up. 

“ You see, Mr. Pastor,” sha went on, “ my daughter 
will have a dowry. If her interests are properly 
looked after, she may marry well. Who will do this 
unless it he myself? And I am growing old.” — 
The speaker was just thirty-five. — “ Inhere comes a 
time when women become vain for their children 
instead of for themselves. I begin already to imagine 
what my Jane Mary will look like dressed for her 
first communion — for she has been reared a Catholic. 
The thing came about naturally. My husband’s 
relations, with whom he placed her, were Catholics, 
and well to do. He use to say that when she grew 
up she could choose for herself ; the important thing 
was that she should have a good education, be a 
young lady, in fact ; and her god-parents would not 
have had her on other terms. Besides, they have no 
children, they will make Jane Mary their heir ” 

“I am very sorry,” Evelard said kindly. “ I fear 
the realization of your wishes is impossible. Is it 
likely that these people will give up their child by 
adoption ? ” 

“ She is twelve years old ; in six years more she 
will become her own mistress,” was the eager reply. 
“ If I can only see her from time to time she will 
love me I am sure. Can a child help feeling natural 
towards its own mother ? The thing is against fiesh 
and blood.” 

“ Where is the little girl ? ” asked Evelard. 

“Do you not know it?” she asked with a look of 


A FBENCH PARSONAGE. 


303 


surprise. “ At St. Gilles, within a stone’s throw of this 
very house, at the chateau ! It seems that the lady 
there made the acquaintance of Jane Mary’s god- 
parents in Paris, and invited the child here. And 
the chit, I hear, acted in a little play one night so 
beautifully that a prodigy at the Eden theatre could 
not have outdone her. When I heard of her little 
blue satin shoes, silk stockings, white-hooped frock 
and gipsy hat, a la Marie Antoinette, all new, ordered 
especially for her, regardless of expense, I cried as 
if my poor heart would break.” And the little black- 
bordered handkerchief was really called into requi- 
sition. Between each sentence came a genuine, 
unmistakable sob. 

“ Look you, Mr. Pastor,” she murmured, “ these 
are thiugs past a woman’s bearing. For a mother to 
hear of her own child, a minx of twelve, turning 
everybody’s bead, and she not there to see ! The 
laws of the land ought not to allow such horrors. 
They told me — Madame Delinon’s maid knows some 
friends of mine — that when Jane Mary faced the 
audience, plantiug her shepherdess’s crook on the 
ground, beginning her little song with the know- 
ingest, pertest air in the world, the company laughed 
till the tears ran down. And this is nothing to a 
first communion. Is there such another sight in the 
wide world as a procession of little girls, innocent as 
the angels in heaven — looking so, at least — all in 
white, and everything new down to their very 
chemises — excuse me, Mr. Pastor, but you Protestant 
clergy are husbands and fathers, like other men — 
myrtle wreaths and long veils, making them look like 


804 


TBB ROMANCE OE 


fairy brides ? Yes, I know it, I feel sure of it ! If 
Jane Mary is confirmed without my knowledge, I 
shall be driven to suicide.” 

“ Hush, hush ! you forget yourself. Shall a morti- 
fication, trivial at best, drive you into the committal 
of a crime ? For, think a moment, what is the cere- 
monial you speak of compared to your child’s wel- 
fare, moral and spiritual ? These are surely worthy 
of a sacrifice on your part. Under the circumstances, 
the charge was necessarily placed in other hands. 
The plan you propose, if effected, might add to youi 
own happiness ; would it be advantageous to the one 
whose interests you are bound to consider before 
your own ? ” 

She sobbed in sulky silence. 

“ Understand me, I am quite willing, after hav- 
ing duly considered the matter, to confer with your 
child’s guardians. I cannot however believe that 
your wishes will be readily acceded to. You may 
comfort yourself with the reflection that when your 
daughter is grown up there will be no barriers 
between you.” 

“ You forget the husband! They will marry her 
as soon as she is old enough. But at least you will 
not let me have made this journey in vain, I may see 
the child?” 

“ Under certain conditions, yes. I feel it right to 
insist that the interview takes place in Madame 
Delinon’s presence.” 

The little black- bordered handkerchief was pock- 
eted with temper ; the veil adjusted ; gloves, reticule, 
umbrella hastily gathered up. 


A FBENCB PARSONAGE, 


805 


“ Never ! never ! ” was the snappish reply. “ You 
are not a woman, Mr. Pastor, or you would not so 
much as propose such a thing. I have heard noth- 
ing but good of that lady, her hand is ever in her 
pocket. I know how such women can treat me when 
they get a chance.” 

Evelard hesitated. Ought he to send her away 
thus? Might not the coveted interview prove a 
turning-point in this poor life, the sight of the child 
work real influence for good ? The little girl, then, 
was close at hand, under Georgette’s roof ! What 
easier than to arrange a meeting? Begging his 
visitor to wait, he went into the next room. A whis- 
pered conference took place, then the gate clicked, 
and fast as his legs could carry him, Jeunet was 
making for the chateau. A quarter of an hour later 
the gate clicked a second time, and mother and child 
stood face to face. Emotion from Jane Mary was, 
of course, wholly out of the question. She allowed 
herself to be caressed with a proper show of demon- 
stration, clung to her mother’s arm, repeating the 
words, “ Mamma, my beloved mamma,” and affected 
the liveliest interest in every syllable that dropped 
from her lips. 

All this time, whilst the mother was scrutinizing 
the little stranger from head to foot, trying to And 
out, not only what she was like, but what she was, 
Jane Mary’s eyes were magnetized towards one point, 
in the direction of the elegant reticule lying by the 
other’s chair. Again and again she glanced else- 
where as if anxious not to betray her curiosity, again 
and again her gaze was fascinated by the velvet bag. 

20 


306 the romance op 

It could not hold much, hut the smaller the gift 
ofttimes the greater its value. She was evidently 
burning with impatience to see the bag opened. 

“ Ah, what am I thinking of ! ” cried the enrap- 
tured mother suddenly — the bird was snared at last — 
“ Jane Mary has not yet received her present, her 
own mother’s little present for her first communion ! ” 
She glanced deprecatingly at Evelard. “ Only a lit- 
tle silver cross and chain, Mr. Pastor, that I bought 
on the boulevard, yesterday — I may surely give her 
these ? ” 

Before he could reply she had slipped the chain 
round the child’s neck. 

“ Oh ! mamma, my own, darling little mamma,” 
said the little girl, throwing her arms round her 
mother’s neck and kissing her with effusion, “ how I 
love you, my sweet mamma.” 

Again Evelard found his visitor’s gaze fixed upon 
him, this time as much as to say, 

“Are you not convinced at last. Can further 
proof be wanting that my child’s heart is mine ? ” 

“ I must leave you now,” she said. “ Mind and 
be a good girl. Never believe that I — that I don’t 
love you. When you are grown up, we shall be 
always together.” 

“ Have you a big house like Madame Delinon’s, 
and do you give fine entertainments ? I should like 
that,” said Jane Mary, eyeing her mother’s gold 
watch chain and little enamelled watch, — they 
seemed of good augury in her eyes. 

“ But you would prefer to be with me, your own 
mother, anyhow, would you not?” 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


S07 


Jane Mary’s answer was of the wariest. 

“ Little girls like to he with their mammas, of 
course, and they like big houses and fine entertain- 
ments too. When may I see your house, mamma 
darling ? ” 

“ I will write ; we will arrange,” was the some- 
what disconcerted reply, whilst tears of mortifica- 
tion dimmed the black gauze veil. Evelard followed 
his visitor to the front door, saying, as he took 
kindly leave, 

“ Do not allow yourself to he cast down. Affec- 
tion, remember, must grow. Were it a purchasable 
commodity who would care to buy? Meantime, I 
will serve you as best I can.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, Mr. Pastor. You mean 
well, I am sure,” she murmured, as she took leave, 
never once looking back. Had she done so she 
would have seen her little daughter holding up the 
trinket to Jeunet’s inspection, whispering eagerly, 

“Are they real silver? Are you quite, quite 
sure ? ” 

Dispiriting as was the interview, it yet strength- 
ened Evelard’s desire to remain at St. Gilles. In 
this outwardly idyllic spot the sordid, selfish world 
held sway as in capitals. Where, if not here, might 
a disinterested religious spirit expect its proper 
sphere? The sum total of good effected by his 
ministrations might be small. What would become 
of human society without the almost imperceptible 
infiuences of men and women like himself, obscure 
workers in the cause of truth and single-minded- 
ness? 


308 


THE ROMANCE OF 


A few weeks later the chateau was close-shuttered 
and silent, Georgette and her charges had returned 
to Paris, Jeunet was in England, Bertrande in 
Alsace. The pastor’s solitude was complete. 

Did Evelard tremhhngly glance towards a happy 
future, cheer himself with the vision of wife and 
children ? He hardly knew. Georgette wrote 
cheerfully, even gaily. Rumours reached him of 
her betrothal to a distinguished foreign diplomate. 
In the forgetfulness of one noble woman, the memory 
of another, lay his own chances of happiness. 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


309 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

CONCLIJSIOI^. 

Ah-other autumn has come round. The brilliant 
day is merging into still more brilliant night as a 
little vessel quits the port of Bordeaux. It was 
one of those small steam tugs that ply between city 
and river-side villages, densely packed from morn- 
ing till night, performing the journey with amazing 
rapidity. The departure of this one was effected 
quietly ; but for the presence of a solitary gendarme, 
strangers might have suspected illegal traffic, deal- 
ings of smuggler or contrabandist. Statue- like stood 
the spectator, his cloak wrapped around him, for 
the air was fresh, his hat drawn over his brows. 
Whatever his business there it was of no joyful 
nature. 

The spot was the least frequented of that bus- 
tling line of quays. Immediately above towered 
the bulwarks of a huge merchantman, casting 
dense shadow, hiding ships, sea front and city 
church towers. On the other side, flowed the 
hushed twilit river. All was very peaceful. 

By and by a little procession was seen advancing 
towards the steamer. The solitary gendarme 
crossed himself and bared his head. Then, without 
indecorous haste, yet without losing an instant of 


310 


THE BOMANCE OF 


time, six bearers deposited their sad burden on deck, 
the black pall with its white cross and deep white 
border was carefully adjusted, deferential way was 
made for the solitary mourner, the little crew 
dispersed, each man to his post, and the vessel sped 
rapidly towards the river’s mouth. 

The evening was one of rare beauty, and the 
prospect fair as any the world can show ; mile after 
mile of stately quays crowded with shipping, flags 
of all nations streaming from the mast, proudly 
dominating city and harbour, the glorious Minster 
towers and neighbouring campanile of St. Michel. 
Mere silhouette is every feature of the scene in the 
twilight, delicate amber pencillings against a soft 
golden sky. 

Wharf after wharf is passed, the tiny vessel 
gliding close under many a noble prow; now of 
steamer carrying a thousand passengers between 
Bordeaux and the Brazils, now a timber-bearing 
brig from Norway, or merchantman from Liver- 
pool. 

The broad bosom of the river has room for all. 
As the picturesque suburb of Lormont is reached, 
the current becomes swifter, the steamer seems 
borne on against the steersman’s will. 

The after-glow soon faded, yielding to effects 
equally beautiful. The full moon, matchless moon 
of the Gironde, no pale, silvery splendour, but a 
ball of Are, rose gloriously. Mast, keel and figure- 
head of each craft passed by stood out in dark 
relief against the clear heavens, the waters shone 
steelly bright, the riverside villages with their 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 311 

spires made jet black outlines upon a soft blue 
background. 

Evelard, notwithstanding his heart-breaking er- 
rand, could hardly be unmindful of the beauty 
around him. The intense calm and silence exercised 
a soothing effect upon his overwrought nerves. A 
few hours before despondency had taken possession 
of him. His soul had rebelled against the deso- 
lation henceforth his portion. He was bearing his 
young wife to her last resting-place, himself left 
with one brief year of happmess to set against de- 
cades of sorrow. Yet, he asked himself now, could 
he reasonably have expected more? Could any 
delicately-reared girl, especially one endowed with 
Bertrande’s sensitiveness, long survive the horrible 
ordeal she had gone through — cold and hunger, 
maceration of the body, tortures of the spirit, what 
were these but stepping-stones to the grave, or 
worse still, the madhouse ? 

That brief, bright spell of returning health and 
joyousness was delusive, no rainbow lovelier or more 
evanescent. Thankful indeed must he feel that in 
her case the physical rather than the mental powers 
had given way. Unclouded to the last her intellect ; 
free from morbidness her clinging affection — for a 
little lifetime the joy of years crowded into one : 
she was his, his very own ; no more perfect union 
could exist between two human beings. And now 
that all had become as a dream, she seemed his still. 
Her grave would be made in a little burial-ground 
adjoining the parsonage. They should still, for a 
time, be very near together. 


312 


THE ROMANCE OF 


Tears rolled down his cheeks as he reviewed the 
events of the last twelve months, the quiet bridal, 
the little trip to Biarritz, the return home. Even 
the sight of the deserted convent could not damp 
Bertrande’s spirits. The Carmelite sisters had aban- 
doned the place. After such a scandal, it was of 
course out of the question for the members of so rigid 
an order to remain. The buildmgs were sold to the 
Mmiicipal Council of La Rochelle, to be used as an 
orphanage for the children of disabled seamen. 
There had been comedy as well as pathos in these 
beginnings of domestic life. The widower smiled 
amid his tears as he recalled one incident out of 
many. Bertrande, having apprenticed herself to 
the old Huguenot housewife, soon boasted that 
she in turn could cook the family dinner. The old 
servant took a day’s holiday. Her young mistress 
in cotton dress and bib apron, busy as a bee, gay as 
a lark, manipulated saucepans and gridirons. All 
began under the happiest auspices. But, alas ! .as 
the breakfast-hour drew near, an ominous silence 
supplanted the cheerful bustle of the kitchen : he 
found her weeping over a series of misfortunes. 
The fire would not burn : one attempt after another 
had proved a failure. What was to be done ? 

A Frenchman cooks by instinct ; quick as light- 
ning he had turned up his sleeves, donned an apron, 
plied the bellows, cooked an omelette to perfection, 
broiled a steak. The pair sat down to the gayest 
meal, her own fiasco aifording matter for merri- 
ment only. 

Her very helplessness and utter dependence on 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


313 


him but rendered her the dearer. In some matters 
she could be an efficient help. It was delightful to 
her to teach in the Sunday-school, train the chil- 
dren’s voices, read the Scriptures to the sick and 
aged. In the fundamental doctrines of Protestant- 
ism he never attempted to initiate her. ‘ Theologi- 
cal disquisition was avoided by mutual consent. 
Religion should make us just and happy, he used to 
say ; and it was this kind of religion only, that she 
imbibed from his lips. He had endeavoured to ;vean 
her, at least for a time, wholly from habits of devotion, 
bending her mind to wholesome joys and duties, 
concentrating her energies on the actual. On the 
whole, the effort had proved successful. The fits of 
morbid self-questioning and introspection became 
rarer and rarer. As her bodily powers diminished, 
her quick, bright intellect re-asserted itself. Not 
until the shadow of final separation had darkened 
their almost too happy life, did he realize the 
depth, individuality, and sweetness of a character, 
open to him as a book. Her image was before him 
now. He seemed to see the fair sensitive face and 
slight figure in its neat dress, as she moved about 
the house, who ever and anon coming to him for a 
word of advice or approbation, ever on the threshold 
to bid him adieu, or joyfully welcome his return. 
Ah, what days were those! Yet, as he recalled 
them, he wondered that his eyes had been opened 
to the truth so late ! It was not Bertrande’s self, only 
her apparition that had emerged from the cloister. 
The sparkling, rosy, adoring girl, veritable imper- 
sonation of health, love and joy, was buried long 


314 


THE ROMANCE OF 


ago within the convent walls. There had come 
forth in her place a mere semblance, an imitation of 
flesh and blood, a cold, grey shadow, for a brief 
interval to wear the hues of life. He recognized the 
fact now. Death had set its seal on that pure 
candid brow before it was impressed with a bride- 
groom’s kiss. Even calm happiness and unbroken 
peace were too much for her tired spirit and worn 
out frame. 

Bertrande rested now, and neither grief nor joy 
could touch him now. He would seek solace in 
work. This pastorate for a time suited him well. 
Without neglecting a single duty he should have 
time to think, study, write. He by no means shared 
his self-confldence or ambition. He never expected 
any work of his to awaken widespread curiosity. 
Fame was far from his thoughts. But he did hope 
to obtain the ear of a few. And who could tell? 
Was not Columbus led to the discovery of the New 
World by the suggestion of Averro^s ? Might not 
even his pen lead others to the truth? Ought he 
to keep silent, feeling that he had something to 
give the world ? 

Was not this Protestantism a stepping-stone to 
loftier, more magnanimous creeds, a moral and intel- 
lectual enfranchisement, to be followed by another 
far more radical ? He could not give up Christianity. 
A creedless life seemed impossible to him at present. 
He began to realize that the creed he had chosen 
was a restriction. 

As a storm-tossed mariner flnds safety only in 
lightening his ship, so must he now throw aside 


A FRENCH PARSONAGE. 


816 


another and yet another dogma ere he could hope 
to reach the spiritual haven for which he yearned. 
At present, superhuman effort was impossible to 
him. All his energies and powers of self-endurance 
were for the time exhausted in that final wrench 
from Rome ! 

He fled for relief to other thoughts and memories. 
He recalled Georgette, Jeunet, Bourgeois. He should 
not be wholly alone. Friendship, affection, inter- 
course with kindred souls would be his as in former 
days. These tried friends knew not only his own 
story, but Bertrande’s also. To these he could 
freely open himself, lighten the burden of sorrow 
by closest confidence. 

Thus he endeavoured to take hope and comfort 
whilst the little chaloupe glided onwards, the only 
moving thing in that vast, luminous scene. The 
brilliance of day was there without its warmth and 
colour. Only one cresset of fiery reddish gold 
gleamed above the cold metallic waters. 

It was Cordouan, the mighty Cordouan ; and as 
Evelard recognised the lighthouse he felt strength- 
ened and uplifted. He seemed to see no mere 
beacon, warning sailors off rocks and shoals, — rather 
an Emblem of Truth itself ; pillar of light : eternal, 
immutable, shining between earth and heaven I 


THE END. 


V • • ^ V ^ 

'k*AL» 






Jkt %i 




‘ . . .c •*- 

‘ ' * i Sj' ’ 'wn j*' 



m‘ 


> ^.'-i 


•% - 

.^A . 


; . •/ : 


\ 
1 » 


U- • 


f ^ ^ 





»• 
» » 


. A 

V‘ » 


% '- 




'. ' ! • * » 

. » I • 




«• 

W' 



i:'. 


.V 




^ -k 


4 . 


f 


V 


#• 


f 


: c . : 


< 


( ' 

^ • I 


• . < 


./i 

•< . 


V • J 


« W 


^ -n 
*. • »§ 


' ’ .I 


St ^ < » ■ 


/ V 




^ V ‘ . 


tt * • •' 

/I'v-V'i; i, C- >T. ■ 




* ► 

« 


( V 


T 


•* 


# I 


4* 

tf 


r 

I 

4 U 


t I 


• • 

# 




4! 


t s 




• ^ u 


s» 


• - •/ I 


•■ •; .:yf f^rp. :. ';P 


^4 


ft 


•4 

# • « 


; V?-’'. 




•^ ' * ft 




I / 


f»; 

w 


• ^ <■ 


>•7 ■ ■ t •.- 

A-'-* ^ - 




^ • 


. » 


• V 


; ->* 

i. > »■ * V. y 


< % 




4 • 


■^4>r*.S r-'^ 

\ - » 


!>. 


-;" 


hA. 


v/ 


» « 


* * 'l #'* ' V, '*‘> ■< *.,-. r. . t 


V* 


/ 


« >» 




W •• 


■■ , >'..- 

'. .•’> • > ' I - ■ 

v*.^ ,. . • , .-.. .. -_ 

‘ " Kiv ♦ • 

•-■• V s •9^5'. 

v:- •■ • 

t •, ft ^ 


‘ ^''■ft IT’**" ' wyftT'*''^ 


It* 
. 1 




>.^ • 


- t. 




K . 


. V 




« I 


**^• 
>y ’ 


^ % 




• ^ ft ■ • *1 
fV* / • 


r • 






• -# 






hu^ri 


\ ( 

# 




\J 


• « 

* ;> 




>• 




-v'l •' 

• V . ^ 

;• .• 


h}' 

•'••- , V . 

• • ftl 


^ Vi * ^ 

OlV^ 


L 


M 


* •*» 


» 

/ • - 


\ • 


1 . 


k 


« # 


1 


ift’: t* 


r • •», 

I 


♦ • - 


i‘ 




^ -*^’f^f.V -i*>' *.'.' ^ 

k'*'” '<W-‘» ' ■"^ .% * ' ' . . *• 

Ji*;.' ;■ . -‘f;.; A'* *. '■ 

n r U' A-' ' !. ••: J . 

> t 


V - ‘ 

t. i 


%4 . 

;i./, 






{ * ML 






V. 


ft ♦ 


ft ' 


I ^ r \ 




ft 

» * 


• / 




• — _ 



• > 








1 - 




^ • V ,• 


' ‘I: 


A. 


»• 




• > 




V'.’ 

■i 


• 0 


I 


* 4 


‘V 


'' ' I 


4 •■ 


-r 


.r-.V,‘rtf- /.*• • 

' \ w % 

w 


4 # 


r^.S 



•• I 


. . f'-v ^ 


• f 




:: <V4. 


ft"' 


V 


iV 


' ft 

# 


^ ft 




- * L* ^ 

1 ft 




ft-ft 


K' 





*.. ■ '. ’'.o .» i 

'A* ^ ’ ’•;': •'•■ ' 'i*- ♦' V 


■ I 




% ^ 

^ 


•I'.-ft ’ •» 


:.^r 


v* 


. t 


r'- vjgJ r.' 





iT'^J^v^* 

rl nj«' ^ ' 


A 

^ i • 



K 



1 






> .^■nn^KERCnj 

^ *3i^u*if3BVdK£n 

Lf’£* .V/ ^ ' •' • • • < ^ 'V 







THE ROMANCE OE A FRENCH 
PARSONAGE 


;j M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

H AUTHOR OF 

1 “THE PARTING OF THE WAYS,” “FOR ONE AND THE WORLD,” ETC. 

I 


I 


‘ NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


si 


> 




I' 



I 



I 




I 







,v 

u 



•• t , 



< 


i 


' . I 





\ 


» 




N 

« 









> 










■ k 


» 

r 


f 


f 


■1 *r 


t 





I 









% 






"i 


H 














r>^ > O ,0 C‘ O 

'^- <>' .0 S 0 ^ ^0 % ^ 8 , A" \ 

'/ ■ v9‘ ^ r C‘ V , '' - 

' "“'^V ‘“'' 


jN. 




ry /, 

. * » t 

* 'V V , 

%j'j\ - ^ - 

tM/'' ' h ^ -7 

ZTlcO^ <1 >* ^ 





> 




' ■<<. 

Vi 


- %c,^' 

. >xv, * vP^ “ 

\\ 

^ ^ -v'^ A ■ ^ 

0 , X A O 

« ■'V, C ^ « ^O. 

*7 ^ ^ c-C'^Nv 

^ ^ .° ■'^ 

O >- 

t J\ ^ 

'O 


.0*^ 


* 0 ^ 





<r IV 

f *».'•' X# ,,. , "e, 

I ° .<^ ; ^ * 

^0 ^ 0 V k'^ .'\ < 3 , 

Q> «vi«^ 

N 4kA: f/y^ ^ ’■y' 4V . c-^Ov^. \V^*4 k .y' 



-t' ■ 

•>> -V 

' I c ^ ^0 ^ 

^ ^ ‘ ^ ^ ^ V • 6 ^ 

“O fN > 



'y<* .V> ^ 

1 ^ ^r C V 

X ^ ^*’V 

^ ■' c,*^ O 




t<» .j 

'V , ^ s iO 

X 

^ tj- ☆ ^ ^ , 


^ J 0 // 7 . 





r> <■ 9 cv ^ O ci;v g; 

,%*--”’o'^ ,v.0,% *•-' V>V'”'/'> 

»\ /l^ ^ ■*^' ^V» ^ l^r\ 

- „ J 

'<« 


> 

• o 0 


■ti ^ VJ 

o'^ 'n^' 


O. ‘tTl'' ^# »»^o' 

\> s-‘”',, '> r’'"” 



